


Emil Västerström's 'How I Spent My Summer Vacation'

by MadameFolie



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Hilarity Ensues, Other, Personal Growth Ensues, Summer Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-04-23 09:59:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4872532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameFolie/pseuds/MadameFolie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summer is here and as everyone knows, that's peak troll season. So in the interest of not having a whole bargain research crew killed off in minutes, the team is recalled to rest and regroup. Everyone's off to check in with their families and then....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. April, Year 91: An Executive Decision

  
It can't be any later than six when the scratch of steel-reinforced glovetips along the tank hull starts and Emil barely has it in him to do more than lean over the edge of his bunk and squint in disbelief as the crew slowly stirs to life. Per routine, Mikkel is the first up and moving, unsealing the hatch for Lalli and firing up the UV hood. Reynir is quietly panicking and fumbling for his mask; Emil can hear the thumping somewhere on the ground below as he searches. The pillow Sigrun throws his way (between groans of "keep it down" and "every goddamn _day_ ") sounds like it misses him by kilometers. Lalli mewls as Mikkel probably catches him by the scruff before he can bolt in pursuit of snacks. And Tuuri, well--

  
"But you're not supposed to be done yet!" Tuuri is already up front, fretting so hard she can't quite keep her Swedish and her Finnish straight. She seizes Lalli by the shoulders. "You left an hour ago, you _can't_ be done yet! Something must have happened--"

  
She's exaggerating some, but the dull pounding behind his eyes is telling him she's not exactly wrong, either. Lalli levels a look first at at the sunlight streaming through the window and then back as if to say "Sun's up, what do you want from me?" At least, that's what Emil thinks he'd be saying right now. It's what he'd say if he were in Lalli's place. Tuuri grabs her cousin and starts checking him over, positive that some horrible run-in must have driven him back to camp this soon. Emil decides it's safest to abandon their scout to her mercy. The captain's sure to understand. A quick look at the dashboard clock when he finally does drag himself to the front confirms: Lalli's returned way before the usual hour.

  
And it gets earlier each day. Sure, he's relieved Lalli gets back safe every time. It's just...it'd be really _nice_ if every time didn't shave another few proverbial percentage points off his functioning capacity. The days get longer. The nights get shorter. Focus starts running thin. Emil forgets to put on his safety on one extraction and accidentally discharges his flamethrower in a theatre. The whole place goes up like there's black powder in the wiring and Emil's big enough to admit that it's dumb luck that nobody fries. Mortified, he watches from the street as the building supports wail and buckle, then shudder into useless heaps of coal in the half-melted snow. Despite the way abject horror has managed to push everything else around him but his own colossal, smoldering failure to the periphery of his attention, he can still feel Sigrun thumping a hand against his back.

 

"There was probably nothing useful in there, anyway," she assures him. "Just trolls, trolls, and more trolls." He sure hopes so. "Man, what did these people make their buildings out of, anyway? Solid kerosene? Jeez."

  
"At least it's warm now," Reynir offers, from a safe distance. (He only learns this through Tuuri's translation; all he hears at the time is a burst of chipper nonsense and the slap of Tuuri's face hitting her palm.)

 

In hindsight, it's almost prophetic. As if the seasons choose to cede to his will, the temperatures climb from that day forth. Within a week of the fire debacle everyone's opting out of their jackets and sweaters, safety protocols be damned. Reynir, for all his fear of the infection, is forced to strip down to his inner tunic or endure a constant coat of sweat to line his clothes. A week more and Lalli can't scramble out of his uniform fast enough for his morning decontamination. Wrenching him out of the tub becomes a full team project, only for him to invariably flee naked and soapy into the shade between the tank treads. Mikkel spends inordinate amounts of time trying to coax him back into his clothing when he's not on shift.

 

"You have no idea how lucky you are," Emil tells him one morning. It's a good deal cooler in the sleeping quarters than it is outside. He imagines it's doubly so in just one's underwear, with the mattress pad peeled back off the cot so one can lie directly on top of the steel. Lalli blearily opens one eye and emits something like a soft growl. He yawns and stretches, then oozes even flatter against the cot. The day's hunt is yet another bust. So it isn't all that much of a surprise when Sigrun calls an unofficial strategy meeting that very same evening.

  
"Look. You guys have probably noticed, but we sort of suck right now." Tuuri's bowl of Dinner (Mikkel's specialty: part re-hydrated potato mash, part mystery legume, part freeze-dried pork) hits the ground and topples over onto its rim.

  
"But--" she begins.

  
"Not that it's anybody's fault." Tuuri seems to relax after that. Being completely honest with himself, Emil can't say he wasn't a tiny bit concerned, too. But only a little. He's got his pride to maintain as this operation's strong right hand. "We're working in unrelentable conditions."

  
"Untenable," Mikkel corrects her.

  
"Exactly! It's spring. For real now. Longer sunlight hours aren't going to do anything to help us once the nice, warm weather puts the trolls on top of their game. First raid we try in the city center, they're gonna be crawling up our asses faster than you can say...I dunno, something fast. Mikkel, quick, give me something pithy!"

  
"On it, Captain," Mikkel replies. Emil thinks it looks more like he's just eating. Eating, and occasionally propping Lalli back up each time begins to doze in his seat. Reynir, meanwhile, is fussing over the cat.

  
"Kitty," it sounds like Reynir is saying. Emil thinks. "Kitty-kitty, aren't you hungry?" Reynir tries to guide the poor animal towards the puddle of spilled food. The cat does appear curious, at first. But one up-close whiff of Dinner and she digs her heels in, lest she have to experience it any closer. If Sigrun notices this mostly tepid regard for her announcement, she refuses to acknowledge it.

  
"Unrelentable, untenable, either way. All I'm saying is, we stick around here much longer and we'll die. I think it's safe to say we've hit the end of our research season." Tuuri breathes one last sigh of relief, then turns her attention towards remedying her food situation. A new bowl, a new serving, and a more settled stomach for foundation seem to give her the courage to speak her mind:

  
"It couldn't hurt to take the tank back in for maintenance," she confesses. "That engine's been working so hard, it's probably time for some intensive care."

  
"Yes! That's the spirit!"

 

"I suppose now's as good a chance as any to restock. Our gauze supply won't hold out much longer. I'd like to look into a few of our findings, too," Mikkel adds. Tuuri translates for Reynir's benefit. While he listens, a change comes over his features. Tension sets in across his brows and along his jaw. As if it were possible to will himself smaller, Reynir folds in on himself.

  
"And I think I owe my family an explanation," he says. He reaches out to scratch at the base of the cat's skull. This pleases her a great deal more than the feeding attempt. "A real one this time. And some apologies. A whole lot of apologies." Reynir's expression hardens at the prospect; Mikkel's, instead, softens until Emil swears he looks almost content.

  
"I would imagine so. Might I suggest we--"

  
"Okay, here's the plan!" Incensed, Sigrun's already on her feet. She clasps her hands together and points them towards Tuuri. "After dinner, Fluffy can radio back to base and let her boss know what the situation is. If her boss is smart --and she'd better be-- we plan on getting a good night's sleep and in the morning we start the drive back to base. Sound good? Fluffy? Doc? Everyone?"

  
"--mm, alright."

  
"Sure!"

  
"Yeah," Emil agrees. Satisfied, Sigrun resumes her meal.

  
"Awesome! Now _that's_ what I call a productive meeting. Short, sweet, and full of good choices!" She toasts this accomplishment with her bowl, Dinner sloshing over the side from the force of her enthusiasm. When she puts it like that, and with so much conviction, Emil can't help feeling that she must be right. He taps his bowl against hers. He's followed by Tuuri, Reynir, and even Mikkel in turn. (Tuuri is gracious enough to move Lalli's bowl for him as well so he needn't be disturbed from his half-slumber.)

 

"Cheers, team," Sigrun crows. "Looks like we're taking a summer break!"


	2. April-May, Year 91: The Recall

All things considered, they've done a fair job repairing the Øresund Bridge. Mikkel's certainly impressed. Admiral Olsen's heart is in the right place; if memory serves, his organizational skills have always left something to be desired. But then, that's what the administrative team is there for, he supposes. Tuuri edges the tank along the pitted bridge cautiously, with a new, practiced patience. The necessary changes in velocity happen smoothly now. Every few meters she checks her speed against the terrain. Obstacles are steered around instead of taken head-on. She must be aware of the eyes of the base team on her, as Mikkel can see her lip drawn up between her teeth whenever her focus deepens. In spite of the cold wind at their altitude, seeping through the thin windshield glass, sweat gathers on her temples. Sigrun sleeps soundly on the passenger bench beside her, not to be awakened until they arrive -- captain's orders.  
  
Perhaps it's for the best. Reynir's curled over the backrest, riveted to the world outside the tank windows. And he's very audibly awed.  
  
"Is this Bornholm?" he asks. "I was expecting more...what are they called again? Palm trees?"  
  
"No. This is the Øresund Bridge. In the old world, it connected the capital of Denmark to Sweden. Now," Mikkel draws an imaginary frame around the wreckage and the mist outside. "It marks the boundary of the known world." Reynir leans back on his heels, still gripping the headrest as he digests the idea. Mikkel isn't sure Reynir has fully grasped just how lucky he is to be alive.  
  
"Wow," he says.  
  
"Indeed. But no palm trees."  
  
Lalli appears to be handling the return trip about as poorly as he had handled the outset. He's set up camp at the circle hatch with his head in his knees.  
  
"Would it be better if I closed the door?" Emil asks, at the ready with an empty pot. Mikkel hopes he has the sense to have picked one of the ones they can afford to throw away. Preferably the one with the bottom taped on. (Having seen Emil's academic records, he expects he's hoping in vain. He'll have to requisition a new pot.) Lalli groans something in Finnish. Not wanting to be left out of the action, Reynir inevitably drifts towards the hatch.  
  
"Is he okay? Can I help?"  
  
"It's motion sickness! Just give him some space and he'll be fine!" Tuuri calls out over her shoulder. The idea seems to intrigue Reynir. He settles in for a closer look, crouching until he's on level with the other two.  
  
"Oh! Like seasickness?"  
  
"Careful, he might throw up on you," Emil warns him in Swedish. To his credit, Lalli is speaking the universal language of turning green and moaning. Most people know to leave that well enough alone.  
  
"Reynir. Will you do me a favor?" That gets his attention. Mikkel waves him over and safely away from Lalli. "We'll be pulling into Malmö any minute now. Why don't you go wake our captain so we can work out our docking plan?" Just in time, he retreats and misses Lalli retching violently out the hatch.  
  
Once awakened, Sigrun twists in the passenger seat so that her arms hang over the top. One eye refuses to open. The other is still working its way there.  
  
"Mm, what, whaddya want? Someone who speaks a real language, tell me what's going on." Reynir dutifully reports. It's a valiant attempt, Mikkel will grant him that. However, since the pointing and the gesturing don't appear to be getting them anywhere, Mikkel translates for him.  
  
"We're almost there."  
  
"Man, already?" Sigrun yawns. "I was having the best dream, too. Two words: _acid knives_."  
  
"Acid knives."  
  
"Yeah. They're knives, but like. Made out of acid. Burn right through everything you stab. Pretty brilliant, actually."  
  
"I see. We should ask Taru to look into that." He settles himself into the space between Tuuri and Sigrun. Sigrun obligingly slides her legs off the seat to make some extra room.  
  
"So, how much longer?" Sigrun wants to know. The corroded signs flanking the bridge are difficult to read. Oxidated iron bubbles up from under words, red runoff stains streak through the letters. It's equal parts lovely and gruesome.  
  
"Um, I think," Tuuri begins. "I think...it looks like we're at the eight kilometer mark, so. Given our current rate, that should be. Um." She pauses to concentrate on edging the tank around a darkened, flimsy-looking patch of concrete. "Half an hour, maybe?"  
  
"Good. That's plenty of time to get ourselves organized."  
  
"What's to organize?" Sigrun is regarding him through narrowed eyes, head cocked so that it's resting on the one arm she's hiked up onto the backrest. "It's simple, isn't it? Dock, shake hands, and go home for a real shower? I thought the eggheads were supposed to handle the rest."  
  
"Yes and no."  
  
"And no?"  
  
"It's unwise to leave for Mora in the evening. Doing most of the trip at night puts us at serious risk. They'll probably keep us until we can get on a pre-dawn trip. And we'll certainly need to have a debriefing. Protocol, of course."  
  
Sigrun gags.  
  
"Don't say that, Doc, I'm allergic to the p-word! You saw. It was on my file."  
  
"Yes, yes, I saw."  
  
"Do they really need to report back to the council this early? I thought they were going to negotiate a presentation date after we get in." One of Tuuri's hands comes off the wheel, poised by her mouth as if to chew a nail. She seems to catch herself quickly and replaces it where it can do the team the most good.  
  
"The boss needs to let them know we're all alive, I guess. And find something cool to tell them. Probably make sure we know what we aren't allowed to talk about, too."  
  
"Oh." Tuuri sighs. "Taru told me this was going to be very political, but it's still amazing to really see it."  
  
"You're in the military. You of all people ought to know that everything is political. Like it or not."  
  
"I know, I know. I just...I just wish it _weren't_. There's so many things that matter so much more." And he knows. He knows all too well. The grin that curls across Sigrun's lips is almost leonine. She leans a little closer to whisper conspiratorially:  
  
"See, Doc, I knew I liked this kid for a reason."  
  
"If you must," Mikkel continues, "think of it as the one small concession that must be made. A concession so that you can get back to doing what really counts."  
  
"Like killing monsters!"  
  
"That's right. Like killing monsters."  
  
With that, the tension evaporates. Tuuri laughs.  
  
"I guess so. Well, then. We'd better set the sisu dial to eleven!"

  
  
Lalli is still plastered to the hatch when they slow to a stop in front of the bridge gatehouse. Fortunately, Emil appears to have assumed responsibility for their scout, and after quickly setting his own hair in order takes it upon himself to do the same for the whole of Lalli's person. In fact, Lalli looks almost passably well by the time docking protocol has been met and they're ready to disembark. If a tad off his color. Reynir, on the other hand, is practically thrumming with excitement. If anyone were to figure out how to harness it, Mikkel thinks, they could power a small town off that boy's enthusiasm indefinitely.  
  
"I don't think I've ever seen so many people in uniform in my entire life! Even in Reykjavík. Is everyone here in the military?"  
  
"They are!" Tuuri hefts herself over the hatch and lowers herself to the ground. "Either are or were! Something like half our base team's former military, I think."  
  
"But I thought you guys were scientists?"  
  
"We _are_ researchers....it's slightly more complicated than that, though." How, he probably won't find out: Trond materializes in front of the gatehouse, every inch of him business in his bearing. Reynir has intuition enough to snap to attention when Trond steps forward. Trond turns an evaluating eye on each member of the team-- Tuuri and Emil with Lalli balanced between them, Reynir doing his utmost to look as composed as he can, Sigrun towering above the children at parade rest, and Mikkel's own self, kitten cradled in one arm.  
  
"Well done, all of you," he says. "Welcome back." That seems to be the signal for all hell to break loose. Siv and Torbjörn tumble out of the gatehouse and don't so much approach Emil as descend upon him. Mikkel can only just barely see a tuft of his hair poking out over their arms.  
  
"Um," Emil tries. Torbjörn pats the top of his head.  
  
"Just give us a moment," he says. Siv isn't half as coherent, but the same sentiment is clearly there. And is catching. Taru, not far behind them, takes Tuuri and Lalli aside for --respectively-- an appreciative squeeze and a hand on the shoulder. Sigrun embraces Trond with one arm.  
  
"Uncle Trond."  
  
"Captain Eide."  
  
"Glad to see you're still kicking." Trond snorts.  
  
"I'm too damn busy to go anywhere. Come. Let's get everyone debriefed."  
  
Olsen loudly directs them towards a decontamination station, to the mess hall, and then to what passes for a conference room at the Øresund base. The faint hum of the electric lights diverts his attention from a long and detailed briefing that ought to have his full focus. They're all prohibited from taking notes and as he suspected, there's a great deal of confidentiality to be maintained. A civilian interloper complicates things exponentially. He strains to take everything in and really, truly keep it. But in the end he finds his thoughts straying more and more to some ibuprofen and a soft bed. Reynir, naturally, is the first to break the silence among them after they adjourn.  
  
"So...see you guys in a couple of months, I guess?"  
  
"I'm afraid it's not that simple," Mikkel tells him, because somebody must. "First, you'll be splitting off from us in Mora, not here. And second, this is not a civilian operation."  
  
"...oh." Reynir frowns. "In that case....wouldn't it be alright, if I just enlist? You don't have to pay me." Siv goes stiff and topples sideways. It takes a connection bordering on supernatural to bring Torbjörn to her side to catch her and right her in time. He's gaping as well, though. Mikkel shoots them both a dark look.  
  
"Don't," he begins.  
  
"Mikkel. Be reasonable," Torbjörn pleads. Mikkel takes note that he's switched to Swedish. "Put yourself in our position!"  
  
"Absolutely not. He isn't trained. He'll get himself killed. Or worse-- get us _all_ killed."  
  
"He says he'll enlist!" Siv cradles Torbjörn's unresistant arm to her chest. "He can learn!" For only four months. Maybe five. Less time than others have had to prepare for active duty. Still an enormous liability.   
  
"Please," Reynir cuts in, his voice small; the switch back to Icelandic, jarring. "I'll be useful, I promise." With that, he's outnumbered. Mikkel sighs. There's no winning this one.  
  
"Take it up with the captain," he says. At least she's got the sense to overrule this nonsense.

  
  
"That's not a bad idea." The expression on her face is of genuine interest. God help them. He should have known better than to ask. "How fast can he learn?"  
  
"Not you, too."  
  
"What? It's just magic! How hard could it be?"  
  
"You were the one most adamantly against it in the first place, if memory serves." And now is not the time for her to go changing her mind on a whim. "You said, and I quote, 'the cat is more useful, and all it does is pee on everything'."  
  
"It was true!"  
  
"Exactly. It's--"  
  
"Whatever! Whatever." She waves him off towards the guest barracks. "We'll figure it out. Naps now, trollbait later."

 

  
The return trip to Mora begins at midnight the next evening. Thanks to the summer sunlight hours, the trip is entirely uneventful. He sleeps fitfully in his bunk none the less. Many years have passed since he made peace with the knowledge that much of life plays out beyond the control of any man. As a field buffeted by the elements must withstand and adapt, the mind must as well. And yet here the chaos rears its head, poised to subsume them; his gut churns at the thought. In the darkness, the very matter around him seems to roil and swirl. Things will work out. So said his mother, and her mother before. Things always have a way of working out. He closes his eyes against the void and wills himself to believe this until sleep claims him at last.

 

Their final stop before they're released is the Västerström family's home-cum-headquarters. The amusing disparity between their worn, torn uniforms and the lush former living room does not escape him. Although, he concedes, the wall-to-wall monitoring consoles do help to make things feel more like home. Siv and Torbjörn's children peek into the war room at odd intervals. Evidently they've taken quite the shine to Lalli, and Sigrun's impressive stature is growing on them.  
  
"We may call you in at some point for statements," Taru explains. "But otherwise this should be ample. Your logs are wonderfully thorough, Tuuri." Tuuri casts her gaze towards the floor.  
  
"I wasn't sure what you'd need, so I just wrote down whatever I could."  
  
"It's going to be invaluable. If there are no more questions," she turns to Siv and Torbjörn, who shake their heads. "Then we can call this to a close. Congratulations, everyone. You've earned this break." Torbjörn thumbs the edge of the heavy hospital record they've picked up.  
  
"Oh, you've certainly earned it," he says. Mikkel has the faintest suspicion that they've more than exceeded the control team's expectations. He only hopes this doesn't mean they're all in over their heads.

 

He'd forgotten, what with the way he carries himself, that Reynir is not a small young man. His arms reach almost all the way around Mikkel when he stops to hug everyone goodbye at the train station in Mora. Each of them receives a good, long farewell monologue in Icelandic (whether it's understood or not) and a good, long embrace (whether it's wanted or not). Only Lalli is spared the full ordeal since he plants a hand in Reynir's face to keep him at arm's length. To prevent what appears to be imminent bloodshed, Mikkel decides this is where he ought to step in: he separates them and re-forms the little tableau into a handshake that should manage to satisfy both of them. Lalli bristles, but resigns himself with otherwise remarkable dignity. All things considered. Reynir remains undeterred.  
  
"We'll be friends," he promises Lalli, grasping Lalli's hand with both of his. "We're both mages now!" Tuuri keeps to Lalli's flank, poised to help him as well. To Mikkel's surprise, all Lalli does is speak to him in reply. Judging by the look on Tuuri's face, it isn't kind. But Reynir smiles and seems to consider the issue resolved, enough so to to shoulder his bag and wave one last time before he's led off into the teeming crowd. And yet for all the rush of the station, things seem oddly quieter among them now that they are short the one body. So it stands to reason that Sigrun feels the need to compensate.  
  
"Back to the cows and pigs, then, Doc?"  
  
"Of course. They'll need a real bath if only once this year. And I suppose the trollhunters are missing their captain."  
  
"Don't you know it! This here might be vacation for you kids," she tells the remaining children. "But now that it's summer, it's right back to work for me!"  
  
"I don't know about that," Tuuri says. "We might get to request a short leave. After that, I think we'll be expected to report back for active duty. I should check with Taru." She confers in Finnish with Lalli for a moment. "I'm not sure, actually."  
  
"If you're able," Mikkel offers, "I might be in need of your skaldic expertise. There will have to be a presentation to the council, remember. It's all going to have to happen very quickly if we want to leave again this autumn. Any hands we can have on deck for the project will make a big difference."  
  
Tuuri's eyes go wide.  
  
"I-- me? Present to the council?"  
  
"Ah. Not necessarily. I imagine the responsibility falls to our project managers, but you would be helping prepare the material and make sense of our, ah. Data. Perhaps even be on standby when they do go to present." It could be good for her. With his spotty background, he can't be terribly useful in the political arena and Sigrun has no interest in representing them there. Perhaps if Tuuri could build some experience negotiating that particular minefield, well. Dare he say, it would make things immensely easier for them all in the long run.  
  
"And you, mister fancypants?" Sigrun says, turning her attention to Emil. "What's my right-hand warrior doing with his summer?  
  
"...I. I haven't thought about it. I guess I figured I'd be going back to the Cleansers until winter."  
  
"Hey, you know," Sigrun bumps an elbow into his ribs. "If they can afford to lend you out for a while, you should come on over to Dalsnes. My trollhunters're going to be doing a sweep of the cleansed area. It'll be great. I bet you'd get a kick out of it." If he doesn't die. Emil brightens at the thought.  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Sure! I'll save you a spot on my team!"  
  
"That would be...that would be _awesome_ ," he says.  
  
"Right? Right? Come fight with us for a bit, kid. You might just learn something."  
  
Sigrun nudges him again for good measure. If she gets her way, she's going to be a terrible influence on the boy. Perhaps that has been her devious plan all along. God help them, Mikkel thinks to himself, certainly not to be for the last time in this tenure.


	3. May, Year 91: Reynir Reports In

May 15, Year 91  
Miss Captain Eide Ma'am Sir,  
  
Hello ma'am and good evening from the Icelandic Academy of Seiðr! Nothing much to report from my first day of training, ma'am sir! Today they had the orientation for the incoming class so we went from classroom to classroom getting all oriented and stuff. I learned a little bit about what I'll be learning and I got to meet my new classmates too! It looks like lots of people find out they're mages really, really early because aside from me and Mrs. Gundersen it's all super young students in the introductory classes. (They're so tiny!) But I'm sure it's going to be okay and we're going to get along great! Everything's going to be great! You'll get a fully-detailed, ultra-official report from me each day so you can see how things are progressing over here. I guarantee, you won't be disappointed!  
  
One useful mage, coming up!  
  
Officially yours,  
  
Reynir Árnason

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
May 16, Year 91  
Miss Captain Eide Ma'am Sir,  
  
We don't have to count the first day, right? Learning curve and all that...? I mean, wow! Who knew runes could blow up, huh? I sure didn't. Pretty crazy.  
  
So yeah, maybe it's better if we skip today's report.  
  
Uncomfortably yours,  
  
Reynir Árnason

 

 

* * *

 

  
May 17, Year 91  
Miss Captain Eide Ma'am Sir,  
  
Okay! So as you might have guessed, yesterday's first day evaluation practical was kiiiiiiiiiind of a bust. Luckily, the teachers say it wasn't important in the long run, just a little test to see how much we already know. And I don't know anything yet! So really I did as well as I could have possibly done! Right? Besides, if you don't know anything, you can only get better! Afterwards, me and Mrs. Gundersen and the girls did each other's hair. They put a couple of flowers in mine, so I felt a bit better after that. There's just something so, so... _happy_ about flowers, isn't there? I keep playing with the little one they stuck into the end. I know! Maybe I can press one and send it to you, I'll see if I can find some paper I can use.  
  
I think I actually really like lectures, though! They started us on lectures today. Did you know things don't blow up in a lecture? I've never been to a magic lecture, so I never really thought about it. They taught us how magic theory works and I think I get it! It's kind of complicated, though...so I drew a diagram to help explain! Pretty smart, huh? Take a look and see what you think. If there's anything you don't get, just ask me!  
  
I probably should have given you more details in the other letters on what we're doing here, exactly. Don't worry, it won't happen again! Every letter you get from now on is going to be an intimate rundown of each day-- it'll be like you're right here with us from sunup to sundown! Morning lectures start at 8:30. We're allowed to get up any time before then, as long as we get to class on time. I've been pretty good about making it. Back home I used to have to get up before dawn to start mucking out the barn so being up before the mess hall opens isn't too hard. Reykjavik's still neat, I guess. But it's so big it's hard to know what to do here when you're not studying. Kind of makes me wish I'd thought to pack a book or something. (All the books in the Academy library are on magic.) So I've been taking a lot of walks in the morning to kill time before class. Once classes start up for the day, they have us until 16:30 with one hour for a break at lunch. Morning sessions are for lectures, afternoon sessions are for practical review. Every once or twice a week we're supposed get quizzed on what we've learned. We don't even get a break at night, 'cause there's homework, too. And I thought farming was tiring!  
  
Don't worry, Captain, I've already finished my homework for today! So now I have plenty of time for writing letters before bed! I've been very, very responsible!  
  
Confidently yours,  
  
Reynir Árnason

 

 

* * *

 

  
May 18, Year 91  
Miss Captain Eide Ma'am Sir,  
  
I was wrong. Lectures are terrible. It was definitely better when things were blowing up.  
  
Eating-his-words-fully yours,  
  
Reynir Árnason

 

* * *

  
  
May 19, Year 91  
Miss Captain Eide Ma'am Sir,  
  
Which doesn't mean that they're hard! Nope, no problems here! It's just that, well. They're so. They're so long. And they're so boring. The teacher can stand up in front of the class and talk for hours without taking a break. It's just too much information! I don't know where the other students are putting it all. Their heads are too tiny for it! Where does it fit?!  
  
About half the magic we've been learning uses runes and runic sigils. Afternoon review this week has been hours and hours of copying them over until we have them memorized. That's what the hard part is. There's lots and lots of runes and sigils to know. They're not allowed to teach the inscription rituals until we have everything else by heart. But-- but-- if you think about the first day, then that's not fair! How am I supposed to make runes that don't blow up if I don't even know how to make them the right way? It just makes me so mad!  
  
...I think I'm going to go press some flowers for a bit.

 

  
Do you like yellow? I found a bunch of purple plants, but you don't seem like the kind of person who likes purple. I also found some bearberry flowers! But they didn't look so good when I tried to press them. I wish you could see them, though. They're so pretty! I put a couple in a cup of water by my bed. They look like little mouths that want a kiss!  
  
Today was pretty much the same as usual. I woke up early and walked, then classes started. We had a lecture in the morning, with a quiz, and a practical session in the afternoon. With a quiz. I overheard one of the teaching assistants talking to another -- something about having to draw some of the sigils in blood for them to work? But they're probably only trying to scare us a little, right? To keep us from trying anything too big before they teach us? Maybe?  
  
I mean, it's just magic. It wouldn't be something that scary, would it?  
  
Quizzically yours,  
  
Reynir Árnason

 

* * *

 

  
May 22, Year 91  
Miss Captain Eide Ma'am Sir,  
  
Ynnh! What a weekend! I'm glad there wasn't that much homework to do, but to try and find a way to fill up the time for two whole days...I wrote a lot of letters home and by Sunday I was seriously starting to run out of things to do. Do you think I should maybe try writing to the others, too? Come to think of it, I wonder how they're doing. I haven't heard from any of them at all yet.  
  
....gods, I'm an awful friend. I didn't even think of asking until just now. Hey, um. If anyone asks, let them know I'm thinking of them?  
  
Today we did more rune drills, starting with some of the more complicated ones. There are hundreds of them to know. You don't have to have all of them memorized, but the better mages do, they said. I think we know maybe twenty of them? They'll be teaching us five a day every day until the end of the semester. We're also building our own scrying kits now. In today's lecture, they told us most scrying you do by having a dream or a vision. Some you can do awake, too, but for the not-really-conscious ones it helps to have a little boost getting. Um. Out of your own head. Not that they're making us mix up anything dangerous! Just handy little shortcut tools! A mage utility set. You could probably make it yourself if you wanted to!  
  
There's one spell you can even do if all you have is just a little bit of salt, it's so easy-- what you have to do is make an itty bitty hole in the ground and fill it up with salt, and then you, um.  
  
Ah, hold on a second, let me check my notes. I know I wrote it down...  
  
...okay, so, uh. Don't panic or anything, but I think I lost my notes.  
  
Anxiously yours,  
  
Reynir Árnason

 

* * *

 

  
May 23, Year 91  
Miss Captain Eide Ma'am Sir,  
  
See, no need to panic! The notes were right where I left them last night, in the classroom! ...kicked into a corner under the lecture benches in the front even though I was sitting in the back. Ha ha, wow, have to wonder how that happened! Maybe it was magic!  
  
My runic handwriting keeps getting better, I think! It's a lot like drawing, but instead of maybe accidentally making a bad drawing if you mess up, your picture explodes on you instead. Except I think mine probably won't explode anymore. Possibly. They kind of look like they won't. I wonder if I'll get to learn the inscription rituals soon...  
  
Tonight I managed to finish my homework early and it's still a bit bright out. Maybe I'll go get some more flowers.  
  
Reassuredly yours,

  
Reynir Árnason

 

* * *

 

  
May 24, Year 91,  
Miss Captain Eide Ma'am Sir,  
  
I have good news! Such very, very good news! Mrs. Gundersen, the little old lady in my class, she offered to teach me how to weave! Now I'll have something to do on the weekends besides taking walks and writing letters! I watched her do some yesterday, it looks complicated. But I'm not worried! And I've got time on my hands to practice it. Not that there isn't stuff to do here! I mean, it's only the capital of the world! I figure there's probably a lot. But. Aside from people at the Academy I don't really know anybody in Reykjavik, and it's not much fun to do stuff on your own all the time...  
  
I guess it's also good, since I can spend some of that free time gathering up some plants for my kit thing. I'll probably need a lot of them for when we go back out so if I start drying and grinding them now I should have enough of the right ones by the end of the summer.  
  
Productively yours,  
  
Reynir Árnason

 

 

* * *

 

  
May 25, Year 91  
Miss Captain Eide Ma'am Sir,  
  
I just had the coolest idea. What if I took a protective rune, and-- wait for it--  
  
\--wove it into something. How cool would that be?! I started working on a new belt last night. Hey, I know! I could make new belts for everyone! Or rifle straps! How about fittings for the face masks? They'd be so cute! And with nifty magical powers, they'd be super useful! As soon as I finish this belt, I'm going to start on stuff for you guys, too! Do you know what size everyone wears? It's okay if you don't, though, I'll just guess and make them really long!  
  
A bunch of the other girls have started hanging out with us in the common room while we work on the weaving. It's been lots of fun! Mostly we talk about home. I thought of telling them about our time in the Silent World, but that's probably way too terrifying for little kids to hear about! So instead I told them that we went and told them that the monsters were nasty but didn't get more detailed than that. Mostly I told them how big it was and how different the old world looks from ours. Around that time in the story I forgot to pay attention to what I was doing and my shuttle got all tangled up. It took the entire evening that night and the night after to undo and redo it! Ynnh!  
  
Frustratedly yours,  
  
Reynir Árnason

 

* * *

  
May 26, Year 91  
Miss Captain Eide Ma'am Sir,  
  
One of my sisters came by today. A teacher for one of the fall sessions is going to sea with her recon crew for a month or two and they were here to pick him up. Mom and dad told her I'd be here, so she was able to come find me to say hi. Did I ever tell you that's how all this started in the first place? I left because my brothers and sisters would always have such amazing stories to tell about all these adventures they were off having far away from home. I figured if I could have an adventure, too, everything would be okay....don't need to tell you how bad I messed that up. But it wasn't all bad, right? I mean, if I'd never left, I'd never have found out how much I can actually do! And I'd never have met you guys.  
  
So I told my sister the whole story. Mom and Dad told her some, before. The rest she heard from me. The look on her face! (I bet that's the same face I used to make while listening to her!) You sure can't beat an adventure like the Silent World, can you? She was so mad she almost twisted my ear off. But after she was done being mad the whole thing started being funny to her. And then for some reason, she started crying. Like really serious crying with a runny nose and everything and she was hugging me so tight I couldn't breathe. I tried to tell her everything was fine but afterwards she apologized since I'd probably have to wash my hair again to get the whole mess out. She said she was proud of me. Even though I did something unbelievably stupid. (Her words this time, not mine.)  
  
That makes today a good day, I guess? I don't know. I'm happy, but in an uncomfortable kind of way. In a big, scary way.  
  
Do you get that feeling, ever?  
  
Exhaustedly yours,  
  
Reynir Árnason

 

* * *

  
May 29, Year 91  
Miss Captain Eide Ma'am Sir,  
  
It's happening! It's finally happening! This week, they're going to start teaching us how to make the runes so they actually do something! It's so exciting I could cry! I almost did a little when they made the announcement this morning but the teachers were giving me funny looks since I was probably getting blotchy and stuffed up and everything so I caught myself and was just normal-excited instead. Still! It's amazing!  
  
The first few weren't any different from the writing practice we've been doing. It turns out you can use ink and paper for some of them. Like the stave for preventing water from rotting something, you can make it on just about any material using just about any material. The teacher had us write it on paper to use on the desks. Others, like the stave to keep food in a pot from burning, you can trace with a ladle in the air above the opening of the pot or the surface of whatever you're cooking. They're useful spells, I guess...but there's even bigger and better ones to know! I wish they'd hurry up and teach us some of those...  
  
Wistfully yours,  
  
Reynir Árnason

 

* * *

  
May 30th, Year 91  
Miss Captain Eide Ma'am Sir,  
  
More of the same, today. We learned the rituals for small spells like how to keep dust and dirt off something which I guess our healer might like. I saw a sigil for a spell to make your eyesight sharper. Now that's a spell we could probably use! Or a locator spell!  
  
Afternoon class, we went out on a group expedition to forage for supplies. I started drying them tonight, they're hanging from the pull on the blinds in my room. I'll probably need to set up a bigger drying station soon, I've got too many plants for just one pullstring. They look pretty, though! Ooh, my room's starting to look like a real mage's room now! So cool!  
  
Expertly yours,  
  
Reynir Árnason

 

* * *

  
May 30th, Year 91  
Miss Captain Eide Ma'am Sir,  
  
That reminds me-- we had a pillow fight in the common room over the weekend! Which doesn't sound important, but let me get to that part. So we were having a pillow fight and I was trying super hard to be careful and go easy on the girls and let them get me a couple of times. And it was fun! I bet this is what having little siblings is like! I'm the youngest in my family, so I haven't had that, you know? One of them got kind of carried away and suddenly I feel all muffled and see white and everything went blank! It was something, alright. Little kids are tougher than they look. But what happened after that is the important part-- I had a dream! That never happens! So it had to be important. It wasn't a long dream and it was mostly boring. All I could see was the inside of like some kind of badger hole or something and there was a bit of light trickling in from above ground. I think there might have been roots, too, so maybe I was under a tree? Sometimes the ground moved a little bit and sometimes something long and sharp kept getting stuck down the hole.  
  
I had a really, really bad feeling about it the entire time.  
  
Not sure why. But! But! I guess what I'm trying to say is, just be careful around badgers or holes?  
  
Seriously yours,  
  
Reynir Árnason

 

* * *

  
  
May 31, Year 91  
Miss Captain Eide Ma'am Sir,  
  
Today we had our first aptitude quiz. That means everyone goes up one by one to stand in a sort of ringy thing out in the yard behind the school and they spray us down with a hose to test out how effective our water-repelling runes are. (Don't worry, they put it on the lightest setting for Mrs. Gundersen so it wouldn't get her lumbar-something acting up.) I think it went pretty good for a first try! I'm. Um. Glad I'm not part of the winter session, at least...  
  
Also, I got your lieutenant's letter, soooooo. I guess I won't have that much to report from the next few days? You probably know the drill by now. Just more of all that whole lots of homework and lots of walking and weaving thing, and lots of appreciating every minute I'm not being sprayed with a hose!  
  
Damply yours,  
  
Reynir Árnason

 

* * *

  
May 20th, Year 91  
Private Árnason,  
  
I'm writing to you on behalf of our Captain Sigrun Eide of the Eighth Regiment of the Dalsnes Trollhunters. As much as the Captain undoubtedly appreciates your dedication to making a thorough report of your training, I believe a looser outline of your training regimen will be acceptable for her perusal. If possible, you may wish to submit it in Norwegian. Nevertheless, she is pleased to hear your training is progressing. Best of luck in your studies and well wishes on your next expedition.  
  
Sincerely,  
  
Lieutenant Gunnar Þórsson  
Eighth Regiment of the Dalsnes Trollhunters


	4. June, Year 91: Magical Mystery Camping Trip

It's so nice and comfortable under the mess hall bench closest to the door because it's secure and in the corner away from too much light but there's also a breeze so it's not stifling and Lalli could stay there all day and nap and he was going to but suddenly the bench jumps and creaks from somebody sitting down and it smells like _Onni_. Like soap and old furs. He smells itchy. Lalli thinks about swiping out at his ankle because Onni should know better than to sit on him when he's trying to sleep. But also maybe if he stays very very still Onni will think he's really already sleeping and go away.  
  
"Lalli." He doesn't even breathe any louder than he has to. "I'd like to talk to you, Lalli."  
  
"I'm tired." It's true, he was out all night. He thinks. It's so hard to tell in summer. He reaches for one of the leather ties on Onni's boot. It has a little bead dangling from it that looks like it's made from wood. Or is it bone? He rolls it between his fingers, letting the ridges make soft impressions in his skin.  
  
"I'll let you go back to sleep in a little bit, but I need you to hear me out first. Can you come out from under there, Lalli?"  
  
He doesn't _want_ to. It's comfortable where he is and Onni knows better. He realizes, with a pang of something dull and sore behind his ribs, that since Onni knows better and still wants to talk it's probably something important to him. It's like Tuuri sometimes tells him, about having to read what's not being said because some things can't be said or people don't know they need to be said. And if she were here, Tuuri would be so mad if he stayed under the bench pretending to sleep. He rolls out onto his back so Onni has to pick his feet up to let him free.  
  
"Hey there," he says, like he didn't know Lalli was there all along. It could be one of his weird jokes. Lalli frowns. It's not a good joke if only Onni thinks it's funny. He pulls Onni's boot tie undone. Onni holds out a hand to him but that doesn't make sense since they're not meeting each other for the first time so he shakes his hand for just a little bit and sits up. "So can we talk?"  
  
  
  
He doesn't _need_ more training. He's not a kid anymore and he's good at his job. So he can't see how Onni doesn't understand why it eats him inside like embers when Onni says he does. They've been walking for hours to the northernmost prong of the island. His legs are stiff and heavy from the effort. Tuuri's told him that there aren't that many people in Keuruu, not compared to big cities like Mora or the cities in the old world. Tuuri likes the idea of big cities with lots of people, so he thinks if anyone knows how small Keuruu is it's her. Keuruu is so small he's been told and still they have to walk forever to the end of Onni's world to be alone to train. Just beyond the farms and almost all the way up to the shore there's a buffer zone of light forest. It isn't so bad out here, Lalli thinks. The air feels a little cooler, a little clearer. He smells less iron and smoke. Which means less people. In a way it reminds him of the way it feels out there.  
  
  
  
"I know I said it wasn't safe for you to go out there. I was wrong. It's _suicide_." Onni sits with his legs folded --one up, one sideways-- across from him on the floor of the mess hall. A long time ago he would have been standing up to have this talk. He'd be making himself as big as possible, crossing his arms, using heavy, biting words like he's trying to crush him with his jaws. Lalli thinks he maybe should have stayed under the bench even if Onni's not making himself into a bear. "You're not ready. Tuuri's not ready."  
  
"So tell her."  
  
"I did. I'm hoping you'll be smarter about this than she's being. Maybe you can convince her. Lalli. Please. Listen to me." He grips Lalli's hand tight. "Tell her. There's nothing to go back for. You've been out there, you know."  
  
"Onni--"  
  
It's bad enough that Onni's trying to tell him what to do, but--  
  
"What's out there that isn't in Keuruu?" He says like he has any idea.  
  
His limbs burning as he pulls himself higher and higher up into the trees. The silver moonlight spilling across the world below. Dazzling flecks of snow like fragments of stars swirling as far as the eye can see. The thrill of his blade thrust so deep in the belly of a beast he can feel its flesh quivering against his knuckles with every breath it draws. Its life flowing down his wrists, soaking into his gloves. A hatch opening for him as the sun creeps above the horizon. Unfamiliar words in a familiar voice welcoming him home.  
  
"I want to go back," Lalli tells him.  
  
  
  
He isn't sorry, no matter how sad Onni is. Onni has no right, he doesn't own them. If Tuuri loves the world beyond Keuruu and wants to leave then it's not his business. And it's not his business if Lalli wants to go, either. They bed down that first night in a copse of infant trees, where a stone formation has upset the roots and earth and carved out a little cover like half a cave. Lalli sleeps with his back to the stone, Onni lays out beside him stretched to his full length. His hands are folded on his belly, rising up and down as he breathes.  
  
"Before you fall asleep," Onni instructs him with his eyes closed, "I want you to focus on your surroundings. Pay attention to everything you hear. Make sure you know all of the gods that are around you." It's rude. It's so rude. Lalli knows the gods. Grandmother taught him the gods like she taught him everything else she knew. Even if Onni's only trying to help, Lalli doesn't want to say anything to him. He closes his eyes also so he doesn't have to see Onni's face wrenched up in a way that makes him ache, too. He closes his eyes and lets go of his self and allows the singing of the wind and the trees to wash over him.  
  
He opens his eyes in his area. Somehow, oddly, he is hyper-aware of his surroundings this time. It's like a smudge has been wiped off his rifle sight. The air ebbs about him in currents of warm and cool. He can feel the sun on his face, trickling through the tree cover above. When he tries pulling off his glove and trailing his hand through the marsh, the water is as cold as if he were awake. Threads of bogweed cling to his fingertips. They're slick and vile with a clarity he's never known before. He's left wiping his hand against his clothes long after he shakes the weeds free.  
  
At the boundary of his dream, he takes pause. He passes easily enough through the barrier when he leans headfirst through it. Though the sensation within his own space is etched upon his own consciousness in sharp relief, the territory beyond is muted to all of his senses. The sea leading to the beyond flows soundlessly. There is no wind. His feet make no noise upon the moss-covered stones.  
  
Onni has already speared two fish when Lalli sits up in Keuruu again and is working on a third. Lalli pulls his cloak over his head to watch.  
  
"So. Did it do anything?"  
  
"...maybe."  
  
Onni ignores him for a minute to train his spear on something in the water. His legs remain stock still, but Lalli can see him tracing the whorls a fish makes about his feet. He strikes quick and clean.  
  
"Is that a yes maybe, or a no maybe?"  
  
Lalli looks away. That should tell Onni enough, he thinks. He doesn't like not being right and thinking about it makes him sore. Onni doesn't press on it, just brings the fish to shore and retrieves a flint stone from within his discarded cloak.  
  
"They'll speak to you, if they know you're willing to listen.The gods love those who love them. So keep your eyes and ears open."  
  
His Sight is fine. Grandmother always said so. As if it were not so far behind him, he can remember her soft, weathered fingertips on his brow and his cheek. _Little lynx-eyes_ , her voice rich and low like the ring of steel strings. _My little lynx-eyed child._ If she were here...  
  
...but there's no point letting his thoughts stray down that path. She isn't here now.  
  
  
All Onni has brought with him is his beltknife and a single rucksack. From within the sack he produces a reel of bast cord and presents it to Lalli after breakfast. They've not long before buried the bones of the fish in gratitude and snuffed out the fire. Lalli is still combing sand from his cloak when Onni thrusts the rope under his nose.  
  
"This is for you," he says. "We're going to make you some new tools." Lalli turns the reel over and over. Tools? "I don't know what you've been taught. But I suspect there wasn't much in the way of day-to-day kinds of spells. Didn't pick those up myself until we enlisted," he amends. "If you study with a shaman, you're going to learn to be a shaman. And so it's time you learned some army mage skills. It'll be good for you."  
  
Onni may be afraid of his own shadow, but he is a very good defense mage. Lalli listens. Onni teaches him that sometimes you need to call on spirits that may not be nearby on their own. Which means they are caught beforehand like fireflies to be released when needed. It sounds disrespectful. Lalli wonders that the spirits don't get angry.  
  
"That's why there's a right way to do it," Onni agrees. "You have to pay them proper tribute." He shows Lalli a few different knots to help him get started and once he's told him all there is to tell he sits down on a stone and lets Lalli do the rest. As he twists the coils of bast and knots them, Lalli sings a prayer to the air mother to ask her blessing. It gets easier the longer he goes. The knots become more even, more steady and sure. He passes a cord over, around and under and prays for a gentle easterly breeze. He wraps a knot thrice over to bind a gale. Warmth he folds into a diamond lattice. He praises the children of the air mother that he has bound into his allegiance. They will be cared for at his side. Respected. Onni watches and listens.  
  
"We're asking a hefty bunch of favors from her." He leaves the observation dangling before Lalli and even Lalli knows what's he's expected to swipe at.  
  
"I'll make an offering," he says. "As soon as I'm finished with these pieces. I don't think the air mother would like me to interrupt myself while praising her."  
  
Onni rubs his chin, cocks his head. Then he nods. Lalli resumes his singing. After, he lays his ropework across a mound of stones. A search of his pockets produces nothing. Their sparse campsite as well.  
  
"I...do not know what to give her." He has nothing of his own of worth. And nothing in the forest is his to give.  
  
"Think. There's more than one way to give. Your allies aren't going to be too happy if you try and hand over their rations as offerings. So. What else do you have?"  
  
"I've already sung..."  
  
"Think."  
  
There is one thing, but he thinks it's amateurish. But it is something and something is better than nothing. He takes his dagger and sinks the tip into the earth. Loosened soil froths up about the edge. He traces a furrow around the offering mound this way. And another. And another. Curls about the perimeter announce the ground hallowed in the name of the air mother. Forks and branches are simply to please. Or, that is, he thinks the lattice of turned earth may please her, if not in its beauty, then in its cost in sweat and blood. His hands are unaccustomed to maneuvering the blade without a barrier of glove between; he feels the seeds of blisters taking root along his palms. When he can't hold the knife anymore, he sits back on his haunches. Onni's focus remains on his work in the earth, fingers folded in front of his mouth.  
  
"...I think I'm finished..."  
  
"...nicely done." He stands, coming over to peel one of the cords from the stone. He holds it up as if Lalli hasn't seen it before. "You can wear these on your belt, or wherever you can get to them when you need them. Some mages wear it under their clothes like armor. But," he adds, "if something grabs you and ends up cutting the knots, that's probably not a great idea. And it's seriously itchy. As long as you have them, though. Well. You'll have one up on the other guy. Thing. Whatever it is you run into out there."  
  
Onni's jokes are always so weird.  
  
It isn't all work for the time they are out in the forest. Onni teaches him some songs at night -- real songs, not spells. Just songs. They don't do anything. He has Lalli repeat each line after him; some fast songs he picks on purpose to watch Lalli stumble like it's funny to him. Onni carves two charms to take back with them. If he could, Lalli thinks Onni would send them off with as many wards as they use around the whole of Keuruu. He hangs his around his neck, close to his heart so that the Breath and the Beast within both know it's there. They head back south to the base for a few days at a time between lessons, to rest their bodies and their spirits. Lalli thinks it's also because Onni likes eating something other than fish and wildweeds once in a while. He picks the thickest, curliest fiddlehead he can find out of the belly of his fish and begins unwinding it with his fingers and teeth. He'd rather eat ferns than have pea soup again.  
  
"How are you on bringing forth spirits?" Onni asks him, scooping out a soft piece of meat from his own meal. He tips the meat into his mouth with his thumb and Lalli wonders if that's any cleaner and maybe should he try it too? He almost has his whole fiddlehead unwound.  
  
"I know how," Lalli says and eats away at the full stem tiny bit by tiny bit.  
  
"Maybe, but how comfortable are you doing it? It's not easy. You need a lot of stamina to pull it off." Lalli snorts but Onni keeps on going: "There's nothing wrong with needing some practice. You can't get good at something you don't practice. Or better, if you're already good."  
  
Lalli waits until he's finished with his mouthful to speak.  
  
"I'm already fine," he reminds Onni.  
  
"So be the best."  
  
Onni wins because as ridiculous as it is Lalli can't argue with it. Before he falls asleep that night, Lalli takes the time again to look and listen and feel for the gods-- the water rippling beyond where they've taken shelter, the firm earth beneath them and the cold stars above. A fox darts through the undergrowth deeper into the woods. He lies still and listens and he knows his place in the order of the forest.  
  
The lesson in spirit-calling begins with them sitting upon the ground opposite each other.  
  
"So let's say," Onni begins, "That you need help from the spirits. You've run into trouble, and you can't get out of it on your own."  
  
"I wouldn't get into trouble." That should be obvious. "And even if I did, I could handle it."  
  
"Okay, fine, maybe not trouble." Onni sighs, raking a hand through his hair. "But you need help. Something you can't do yourself."  
  
Also absurd. Lalli lets him talk himself right to the end of that idea, hands in his hair until he's combed it all back smooth by accident.  
  
"Come on, Lalli! Give me something, here. You're in a situation where you need to call a spirit. Maybe to get information on something up ahead. Does that work? You need a spirit scout to see something you can't."  
  
...that's fine. Lalli nods.  
  
"You're in...in an old city? Yes. A house. You want to see what's in a blocked room." That's an easy one.  
  
"You call on the wood. The wood or the stone. Whatever the building's made of."  
  
"Right," Onni sighs like he's relieved, not like he's satisfied. "Good. The stone might be easier than the wood, since the wood's been cut off from its roots. Some kinds of paint count as stone, depends what's in it. And if there's plants growing, you can ask them, too. The young plants, they're always happy to be useful. They'll want to help."  
  
Lalli thinks of the dead, withered buildings in the city center, with their thin green film of new life. There are many plants around that he could call upon. And also:  
  
"I could send out the luonto," he says. The lynx can see, can pass through anything. And it is strong. Onni's expression becomes more deeply engraved on his features.  
  
"Your luonto? That's not smart. Only advanced shamans use luonto." Lalli sits just a little bit taller, holds his head slightly higher. He knew grandmother wasn't wrong. And grandmother believed he could.  
  
"I can do it. I've done it before."  
  
"It doesn't matter if you can, I still don't want you to do it." The embers of Onni's doubt continue to sear at him inside.  
  
After the fourth week, they begin to spar. Onni has them fold their cloaks over a low branch so that they can face each other. Onni strikes at him, implacable, eyes and fists glowing with summoned might. Lalli cannot match him for strength but his eyes are keen and he is much smaller. He is able to weave through Onni's blows and slip through his grasp. The match will be his if he can lay the sheath of his knife to Onni's throat. He's quick enough that he could do it. Onni reaches for him as if to seize the front of his clothes, and Lalli thrills in seeing the strike come; he does not notice the knee aimed for his own, ready to sweep his footing out from under him. He steps back to avoid Onni's grasp and instead finds himself on unsteady legs that buckle as soon as Onni makes impact.  
  
"You _cheated,_ " he protests as Onni helps him to his feet.  
  
"Maybe." Onni hauls him upright and brushes the dirt off his back. "But if you're facing what I think you're facing out there, it's all the same to them."  
  
He aches at night from their practice, so much so that he sleeps badly. Lalli pinches Onni's arm so that he doesn't have to be the only one hurting. Onni sleeps on. So unfair. Lalli rolls back over to face the gnarled roots and mossy stone of their shelter and thinks instead of a soft sweater, a kitten purring at his shoulder, and a stove glowing the color of sunset in the corner.  
  
It isn't until one of their last bouts that he finds a chance to prove himself to Onni. He breathes the words of the spell as quietly as he can as he feints towards Onni's knees and flank in turns. Onni suspects he is up to something and blocks each, remaining focused on his center guard for any contingency. What he does not expect is the lynx -- Lalli dives under his arms and towards his back, grasping at his neck with the arm of the Beast. Onni shouts as phantom claws close around his throat. The fight is his, so decidedly his. It isn't even cheating. Onni said so himself. Lalli releases him, but lets the Beast stalk rings about him.  
  
"I win," he says.  
  
"Holy..." Onni starts. "That...yeah," he agrees, steadying himself. He manages, but not easily. "Definitely won that one. Now let's talk about what worked so well that round." Lalli growls. He's tired. Onni keeps on talking anyway.  
  
"You can't expect that everything you take on is going to-- woah, come here a second?" Onni takes him by the shoulders, sweeping something from under Lalli's nose. When he pulls them back, his fingertips are scarlet. Gross, Lalli thinks, and wipes at his eyes, too. Onni stiffens beside him. For a long time, he says nothing.  
  
"What," Lalli demands, because Onni is staring at him and holding his own filthy hand out in front of him like he's forgotten it's part of his body and it's starting to be weird and a little bit scary.  
  
"You're bleeding. Lalli, what the hell--"  
  
"It's nothing," Lalli tells him. The luonto has already settled back under his skin. He'll probably be dizzy for a while and be tired in the morning. But it's nothing.  
  
"What do you _mean_ 'it's nothing'? Has this happened before?! You're not supposed to-- no, let me see your eyes." He reaches to push Lalli's hair out of his face.  
  
"It's nothing, I'm fine," Lalli repeats, stepping back.  
  
"I knew it." Onni follows him the extra step, trying to tip his head back. "It's too much for you, you're not ready. Forget this-- we're going home."  
  
"No!" Lalli shoves at him as hard as he can. It's only going to make Onni angry, but right now he's feeling even angrier than Onni could ever possibly be. He just wants Onni to go away. Either to go away or just...  
  
"Lalli, listen to me. I need you to listen to me."  
  
"No." He rolls up his trousers and wades out to the nearest rock. If Onni won't do it, then he'll be the one to put distance between them. He sits, folds his legs up to his chest, and puts his hands over his ears.  
  
"Lalli," One of Onni's massive hands grips his wrist. How _dare_ he. Lalli pulls and pulls but Onni is solid like a bear, like a mountain and he can't get free no matter how he tries. And it hurts. "Please."  
  
"Let me go!" He shouts over Onni's voice as loud as he can for as long as he can: "Let me go, let me go let me go let me go let me," until suddenly, Onni just. Stops. With nothing resisting his pull, Lalli keels backwards, off the rock and into the water. It's freezing and the pebbles and shells are chewing into his skin and somehow the nothing is even worse than the angry. Through his own wet hair, he can see Onni's back, retreating towards the shore. Probably going to sit down there and cry, Lalli thinks. Fine. Let him cry. They don't talk again for the rest of the day. They don't eat, don't strike a fire, don't anything. They just ache like a bruise. Onni lays back down in the copse when the sun sets and goes right to sleep. Lalli nestles into the sand and sleeps in the open far away.  
  
  
It's quiet in his space that night. The birds that usually chitter out of his sight are nowhere to be heard. He knows this stillness. He fears to even breathe before it passes, before it loses scent of their trail. Small white flowers blooming in the bracken wind towards him, curling protectively against his fingers and jaw. He stays unmoving on the planks until dawn.  
  
  
Under the cool morning light, Onni looks as tired as he feels.  
  
"It's not safe out here," Onni tells him, staring off into the mist on the lake. And he's right. So Lalli says nothing. "Not for now, anyway. Let's go home."  
  
They strike camp and begin the long, long walk back to base.


	5. Interlude: Some Highlights from Tuuri's Summer Correspondences

_[Postmarked: May]  
[Stamped: Mora_ ]  
  
Onni,  
  
Please don't cry anymore! Lalli radioed in to tell me you haven't stopped since I left. I promise I'll be back again before summer's over, so please don't! If you pass out again from crying with only Lalli there to handle it, I don't know what I'll do! (Except for coming back to stay. It would only work for a little bit, so please don't try that!) We've been staying at headquarters, which is really just the Västerström's house in Mora, but it's so exciting! Last time we came to Mora we stopped for a day while passing through, and now we're staying for real! Can you believe it? In Mora! The cultural capital of the world! There's so many people and so much machinery. They have horses here, too. They're so cute and their tails are so fluttery! What's more, all of the lights are electric. It's so great that they're always working. I can use the bathroom in the middle of the night! Not that I can't at home, but it's different when the lights aren't working. I know you know what I mean, don't try to tell me you don't. So I guess what I'm saying is that the Västerströms are nice, Taru's here, and it's very comfortable so there's nothing to worry about. They even have a dog! He's helping me with the research.  
  
There's a lot to take care of before we head out this winter. Last time we were sort of flying blind. This time we'll be going out prepared. I do want to make some adjustments to our equipment before we go. We might have money for some good upgrades! I'm sure Lalli could use a more accurate sight for his rifle and Mikkel probably has all kinds of medical tools he'd request if he could. I think I can take care of the smaller fixes on my own if I had to. It'd be nice to work on the tank at some point as well...I don't like the noises she was making in April. The money's the easy part, I think. The books we found are really worth a lot! And since we came back just fine and proved we can do this, there's a better chance our funding will get renewed, too! Maybe even increased! How wonderful would that be? But... before we do anything with the books the control team wants a few copied over. That's probably what I'll be doing for most of this summer. It's a long, slow process. We've been working day and night and yet gotten so little done. (That's where the dog comes in, he's moral support!)  
  
We'd suspected as much, but now that we've had a real chance to sit down and look at it all: some of what we've found outside is so amazing! Mikkel says I should be careful what I put in writing so I can't tell you the serious things now, but you'll hear all about it when I come to visit! There are things I can talk about in letters, though. Like the books on sports cars.  
  
_  
__[FOR REASONS PERTAINING TO CONCISION, PAGES 2-8 OF THIS MISSIVE HAVE BEEN EXCISED]_  
  
  
And so it's been lots of fun to screen the material! So no more crying, okay?  
  
Love,  
  
Tuuri

 

* * *

 

  
_[Postmarked: May]_  
_[Stamped: Mora]_  
  
Onni,  
  
I got to pet a horse today! It had such long eyelashes, so pretty! That was the high point of the day, though. For the rest of the time, we had to file reports on our activities out in the Silent World. Maybe next time we shouldn't put off all the reports for after we get back...  
  
Love,  
  
Tuuri

 

* * *

  
  
_[Postmarked: June]_  
[Stamped: Mora]  
  
  
Onni,  
  
It's happening, it's really happening! We're going to Reyjkavik to present to the council! What am I going to wear?! We're all going to have to look professional -- is my dress uniform still there? And my good boots?! I'll try to find out if Taru's planning on visiting Keuruu soon and see if you can pass them to her so you don't have to mail them.  
  
Love,

Tuuri

 

* * *

  
  
_[Postmarked: June]_  
_[Stamped: Mora]_  
  
Onni,  
  
Is everything okay there? I haven't heard from you in a while...  
  
It's alright if you're busy! Just write something short, even if it's only to tell me you're okay.  
  
Love,  
  
Tuuri

 

 

* * *

  
  
_[Postmarked: June]_  
_[Stamped: Mora]_  
  
Lalli,  
  
What's this Onni's telling me about you eating his outgoing letters?!  
  
Love,  
  
Tuuri

 

 

* * *

  
  
_[Postmarked: July]_  
_[Stamped: Mora]_  
  
Onni,  
  
What do you  mean you tried to ask Taru to pull us off the project?!  
  
Love,  
  
Tuuri

 

 

* * *

  
  
_[Postmarked: July]_  
_[Stamped: Mora]_  
  
Lalli,  
  
Please stop intercepting and eating Onni's mail! It's alright, he can't make Taru do anything! And no more radioing in! You know the radios aren't for personal use and the operators are going to get mad if you keep calling over here. Besides, we're leaving for Iceland soon. I won't even be here to get your calls!  
  
Love,  
  
Tuuri  
  
P.S.: You know you can just burn the letters or tear them up, right?

 

 

* * *

  
  
_[Postmarked: July]_  
_[Stamped: Reykjavik]_  
  
Onni,  
  
Yes, I asked him to stop eating your mail. He should stop throwing up now.  
  
Love,  
  
Tuuri  
  
P.S.: Mikkel says that if he's still having trouble, you should take him to the infirmary for an emetic. He says most places will have something to give him, but you don't want to wait too long or something's going to slip through and get into his intestines and that's, um. "Bad news," I'm told.

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
_[Postmarked: July]_  
_[Stamped: Reykjavik]_  
  
Onni,  
  
I think the presentation seems to have gone over well! They were very pleased to hear that we all came back alive and so after that it was much, much easier to impress them! I'm glad all those twenty-hour days in Mr. and Mrs. Västerström's living room getting overdue reports in order weren't totally in vain. And it was so amazing just to be there -- I've never seen such fancy buildings in my life! The council's office is huge, maybe double the size of the gate house back in Keuruu. They even have a fountain out in the front! It was all so...so... official.  
  
Mikkel was right when he guessed that we'd mostly be there just to answer questions and be proof that we survived. You wouldn't believe the practice we had to do beforehand just to be ready for the grilling we got. I also got to hold one of the binders of the project notes and be a reference when they needed to dig up citations! I was as prepared as I could be, but I was still so nervous that I didn't realize until we were back at where we've been staying that I'd chewed my thumbnail right down to the skin. Now that thumb looks shorter than the other...  
  
It's going to be a few weeks before we hear anything. The reports are going to have to make a few rounds in the council, and then there's going to be evaluations, and budget assessments, and all kinds of boring administrative things. I guess I could probably come back to Keuruu until then, it's not like there's anything we can to to move things ahead until then. Sigh. I can't even work on the tank since she's still in Denmark. Double sigh. Right now I'm still waiting my turn for the bathroom, I could really use a shower. (Actually, I could really use a nice, long bath. I can't remember the last time I took one just for the sake of having one!) We'll probably talk about the rest of the summer plan in the morning.  
  
So, good night, I guess.  
  
Love,  
  
Tuuri

 

 

* * *

 

  
_[Postmarked: July]_  
_[Stamped: Reykjavik]_  
  
Lalli,  
  
Taru and the others have finally started talking about organizing the rendezvous for this trip! I'll be able to come back to Keuruu for a little while and get my things and see Onni and then we're all going to Norway to meet up before we head out! Mr. Andersen says that they have a big crayfish boil every summer where the captain lives and so it's better for us all to go there instead of gathering in Mora even though it kind of takes us out of the way for a little while. General Eide's honey cake is something of a legend, I hear!  
  
Take care of Onni, okay? He's going to start getting mopey again now that we're halfway through the off season. I'll try to do what I can on my end to keep him calm.  
  
Love,  
  
Tuuri


	6. July-August, Year 91: Ain't No Party Like an Eide Party

In a weird way, the Eide family's base is somehow exactly what he expected and at the same time not even close to what he pictured. Assumption: backwards, back-woods bunch of Norwegians high up on oil rigs, hoarding all the stabby things they can find? Spot-on. Obviously. That said, he didn't think the place would be so...  
  
...so _viking_ about it all.  
  
But they took the viking, and they ran with it. They have honest-to-God longboats. And throw their parties in an honest-to-God mead hall. Where their generals sit in state at the back of the hall drinking from honest-to-God chalices while wearing honest-to-God fur cloaks and honest-to-God diadems like the last few centuries just didn't freaking happen. They even drink real mead in their mead hall when they throw a welcome party for Sigrun's new right hand warrior -- Sigrun says it's easier to make than, say, beer. And it doesn't waste any precious staple crops. So they have a lot of it.  
  
"Don't get too carried away, kid," she warns him. "Troll hunters don't get out of morning drills over a little old thing like a hangover. Best cure is run 'till you drop and then you run some more!" Still, Eide hospitality doesn't seem to allow for empty cups and he's good and dizzy in no time. In his daze it occurs to him that all the talk about training while hungover might not have been idle threats. The first evening passes in a pleasant blur of back slaps, shoulder punches, and wildly misinformed questions about the Silent World.  
  
"So is it true that people in the old world used to send each other messages with their minds?" A man asks them, one eye wide. The other eye is little more than a knot of scar tissue. He can't seem to decide whether he'd rather be eating or interrogating, and instead appears to have decided to proceed with both at once. "I had this friend who had an uncle who heard--" The woman next to him jabs her spoon between his ribs.  
  
"Wait your turn, I wasn't finished!" But whatever the rest of her line of questioning entailed, it's lost to the ages as the scarred man flips her bowl up into her face in rebuttal and the ensuing scuffle takes them over the side of the bench and onto the floor and out of the conversation entirely. Another man, short and bristly, with blunt, round features, is all too happy to fill this newfound void. He slides into the now vacant seat next to Emil.  
  
"So what's your specialty? You a knife kind of guy?"  
  
"A-actually, I've been working as a cleanser the last few years--"  
  
"A demo guy! I'll toast to that!" Except they toast to everything. Emil considers it a testament to his own (admittedly, impressive) fortitude that he makes it back to the barracks upright, crawls into the correct bunk, and doesn't need the bucket he forgets might be a good idea to place next to the bed so he doesn't accidentally leave himself a surprise for the morning.  
  
He wakes up feeling less ragged around the edges than he was led to believe he would. With only minimal pain and swearing he's able to wash his face, fix his hair, and pour some of the communal gruel down his throat before training starts. He doesn't even look half bad once he's done. Weathered, but still on his game. Good. After all that talking him up Sigrun's apparently been doing, he's got a solid first impression to make.  
  
 Morning drills adhere to a much higher level of organization than he would have thought a bunch of hunt-happy yokels capable of. Not dissimilar to service back in Sweden, but with fewer of the trappings of real civilization. Charmingly quaint, he thinks. Thirty minutes after dawn report, they ring the morning bell -- all troops are evidently expected at the training grounds and in rank and file behind their captains by then. Emil slips into the very back of the Eighth Regiment's file that first day. Roll call is taken by regiment and then, once everyone's accounted for, daily training begins.  
  
They run. Mostly they run. Five circuits around the training ground perimeter just for warm up, before they even stretch or anything. And the training ground has to fit all the troops. So it's huge. Emil thinks he might actually throw up stone cold sober. On one lap, he lands funny on his foot and his ankle turns so the whole leg gives out under him. He wipes out completely and it's so, so tempting to stay right there where he is and milk even the tiniest break for what he can. After all, he's even got an excuse on this one. But he's not down there long. Sigrun jogs up to him, about to lap him once again, and slows to a comfortable run in place.  
  
"I told you we'd have you run 'til you drop!" She laughs, which shouldn't even be possible at her pace. Somebody ought to make a complaint. "But just so you know, you really don't want to hang around down there -- we kick the groundhuggers."  
  
He'd better get to bag the biggest, nastiest troll for all he's going through and he's going to wear its teeth on his belt. (Only in Dalsnes, though, he still has some dignity.) He bets trolls _never_ have to do stamina drills.  
  
It's something he would have thought impossible, but he's not even hungry by the time they break for lunch. Maybe trout hash would have been delightful in a crude, rustic way some other time. Maybe. Right now, he's not sure anything he eat's going to stay put for long. He stares down his helping, working up the mettle to test his stomach. One of Sigrun's lieutenants, a woman with a pinched nose and her hair pinned around the crown of her head in a braid, frowns at his full plate.  
  
"At least eat _something_. I know it's hard, but try. You can't train on an empty stomach. You too, Åge," she plants a lump of bread in Emil's plate and extricates herself from the bench to attend to the other fresh recruit. Åge's been faring even worse, from the look of things -- his face is pallid as he regards his own meal. Emil takes the opportunity to liberate the water jug from Åge's side of the table. He probably won't be using it too soon. And at very least, he can stave off almost certain dehydration.  
  
After lunch it's more strength training and combat drills. Crunches until he discovers new muscles to cramp. Push-ups until his arms feel like they're going to pop off at the shoulders in protest. Squats, on top of all that running until Emil's wondering just how Sigrun managed to talk him into going through with this whole mad caper. He must have had a lapse in sanity. One of Sigrun's crazy moments probably gave him the crazy, too. The trollhunters are all crazy, he thinks, lying on his bed and on the very cusp of consciousness. He can hear the girl in the bunk above him showing off her missing toes.  
  
Now that he's sober for the experience, he sees that sleeping in the main barracks is very unexpectedly, er. Communal. It's a big single-room hall like the one he stayed in during basic back in Sweden, with rows and rows of bunk beds and a restroom area in the back. Supposedly ideal for building troop solidarity or something to that effect. Zero privacy. Horrendously demeaning. Experience has taught him that the only way to make it bearable is generally to secure a bottom corner bed, hang any blankets one can find from the sides, and ignore everyone else as hard as possible.  
  
The foot, missing toes and all, is hanging down into his half of the bedspace when he pulls his makeshift curtain aside. Emil looks up to see his bunkmate's mouth widen into a gap-toothed smile.  
  
"Hey, you're awake! Wanna see my battle foot?" She wriggles the three toes remaining, right next to his head. Another set of hands lowers a cat to level with the foot.  
  
"Hymir's only got four toes," the girl's companion boasts. Probably her brother, since he looks like her in slight miniature. "On _all_ of his feet. Guess that also makes him a pretty big deal, too!" The cat seems mildly displeased to be manhandled so, but not in the least bit unaccustomed to it. He yawns and attempts to groom his belly. He can't quite reach, but he certainly hasn't got anything better to do than try.  
  
The second day hurts, but not nearly as badly as the third day. On the bright side, one of the lieutenants takes him to pick up a couple sets of training clothes. He looks more like a barbarian in them, but significantly less out of place. And although the dress code offends his sensibilities, he'd much, much rather not look out of place.  
  
The generals make their weekly inspection rounds that day, too. He sees them chatting with Trond (when had he gotten here?) and one of the other captains. They're still wearing the huge fur cloaks, but now that he can see them up close...General Eide, the one that's Sigrun's father, he notices a familiar face somewhere over Trond's shoulder and he starts waving and smiling, an odd-looking gap-toothed grin. The other General Eide politely dips her head in greeting towards whoever they've spotted, then picks up the talk with Trond where her husband seemingly left off. Yeah. Up close, Emil can see more of the grey in Sigrun's mother's hair. Both their faces are creased, the flesh having softened and settled with the years.

It's funny, he thinks, that once they're down on the ground like this, they almost look like normal people. Emil tries to imagine them in civilian clothes. Torbjörn used to have this foul old dressing gown when Emil was still in school, made up of plush red fabric with padded lapels. It'd been worn to death but every morning of every weekend, there he'd be with his coffee and the paper (Siv, too, fretting with her coffee and the crossword, but in a far less hard-wearing garment of her own). Their socked feet whispering against the tiles under the table, mostly Siv's as she'd fidget and fuss. Last he saw, the lapel stuffing of the dressing gown had started to spill out of the seam and the little embroidered emblem thing unravel, but Torbjörn loved, loved, loved that dressing gown.  
  
...no, he thinks, the Generals Eide and Eide probably wear their fur cloaks and weapons to bed and likely will until they're even more crinkled and grey. He's pretty sure Sigrun does it. Even her sweaters have straps stitched into them for knives.  
  
Sigrun waves a lieutenant into her place directing stretches and bounds over to her parents. As Emil watches, she kisses each of them in turn and slaps Trond hard on the back. They talk some, Sigrun pointing out the different platoons and outlining their assigned exercises for the day. At least, that's what Emil thinks she's doing. She's certainly doing a lot of complicated-looking gesticulating. And then her eyes fall on Emil. She beams.  
  
"Hey, pretty boy!" Her voice rings out loud and clear across the training ground; Åge jumps beside him, crossbow clattering to the ground. "Come here a sec!" He can't imagine who else she might be addressing, so she probably means him. Also, she's staring straight at him. He sets his water aside and just as One-Eye steps in to fix Åge's embarrassing, flimsy bow form, he makes his way towards them. In Sigrun's enthusiasm, he manages to arrive mid-introduction:  
  
"--and _this_ guy's the one we're borrowing from Trond's project! Mom, Dad-- Emil! Emil-- Mom and Dad!" Just in time, he reaches handshaking distance. They're game enough to wait until he's come to a full stop before putting him on the spot.  
  
"We've been so excited to meet the the rest of Trond's research team! Sigrun's told us so much about you." Good gods, does her father have some grip. That General title may not just be for show. Though smaller, the mother's hands are just as strong. Emil's quite confident he put the right amount of strength into his own. Firm and respectable, but not threatening. He thinks.  
  
"This one's been my right-hand warrior out in the field! Let's see if we can't hone him up good for the next trip, huh?" Trond snorts.  
  
"One week with the trollhunters? He'll be years ahead of the Swedish outfit."  
  
"Exactly!" Now it's Emil's turn to receive a slap on the back. "Gonna intervene early and make him a real fighter." Oh. Ohhh. That. That sounds terribly ominous. It's already _been_ terribly ominous. Emil does his best not to look as concerned by that declaration as he feels. He smiles extra wide to showcase his intrepidity. That seems like the appropriate thing to do.  
  
"Well, Emil," Sigrun's mother takes her husband by the shoulder. "I do regret that we can't speak longer-- we're running quite late as it is, and we've a meeting at eleven." General Eide, the father, frowns.  
  
"The budget review?" He looks as if he'd rather be anywhere else in the world, though preferably with his daughter.  
  
"Yes, dear," General Eide, the mother, replies gently. "The budget meeting. Necessary evil, dear," she reminds him as he begins to groan. "Necessary evil."  
  
"But I'm glad we've had the chance to meet you!" Sigrun's father claps a powerful hand upon Emil's shoulder. "You'll be staying for the crayfish boil, of course?"  
  
"Duh, Dad." Sigrun joins her mother in steering General Eide, Mr., off to his duties. "Now beat it, we got work to do here!" It's Trond, however, who is able to separate the family at last, with one withering look at the generals over the top of his spectacles.  
  
"Your mom and your dad. General Eide and General Eide," Emil thinks aloud, watching the two of them retreat. "That must get very confusing." Sigrun shrugs.  
  
"Just call 'em 'General Mom' and 'General Dad', 's what everyone else does." Which sounds like a joke. Emil's going to treat it like one. It must be, since Trond doesn't look like he finds it especially funny. Then again, Trond makes that face an awful lot. Emil's beginning to suspect it may just be his default.  
  
If not for the fact that he's out cold on contact with the mattress every night, he'd probably find himself adjusting to the new sleeping arrangements with difficulty. As much as the Norwegian army's barracks are an affront to personal space, there's something discomfitingly familiar about that particular element of it. One really can get used to anything, he thinks, laying awake in his bed past lights-out one rare evening. He can hear the others in the hall, breathing, snoring, rolling over in their sleep. Somebody to his side sounds like a kicker; their mattress creaks, their blankets hit the floor. Emil's grateful to have people close by. After months sleeping an arm's length at most from another person, being back in his own bed had seemed so eerily quiet that first night home. Still, it isn't quite the same. It should be easier to sleep, he imagines. With no immediate threats, and no need to worry about Lalli running about alone who only knows where, one should be able to rest untroubled. It's stuffy in the barracks in a manner that has nothing to do with a tiny heating stove in a corner. And yet, one really can get used to anything.  
  
Somehow he falls into a rhythm of sorts. The training schedule becomes manageable. He's asleep closer and closer to lights-out every night, though his bunkmate still thinks it's funny to point out how much earlier he's in bed than everyone else at night. He kicks at the bottom of her mattress, which she also thinks is pretty funny, seeing as she starts laughing louder whenever he does. Evidently he can be as tired as he pleases as long as he looks like he's putting up a fight. Or so he's learned these last few weeks. Most things are okay, reframed as a fight. For them, fighting is practice. Practice is learning. In their own barbaric way, the trollhunters endorse an education of sorts. His family would cry to see the way the Dalsnes children comport themselves. His bunkmate's brother tries to steal food off his plate sometimes; a good shove back under the table's usually enough to deter the kid. Better luck to him the next time: if he can't beat Emil, then raiding his uncle's table up at the back of the hall's a pipe dream. And of _course_ he can't beat a trained warrior like Emil. Obviously.  
  
It all gets _easier_. Which is how the first troll hunt completely sneaks up on him. He's quietly shoveling dinner into his mouth one evening  while the one-eyed lieutenant is telling him and Åge about some dubious sounding plant poultices that supposedly help with muscle soreness when silence sweeps over the mess-hall-mead-hall. The lieutenant stops mid-sentence, mid-gesture, and turns his head towards the platform at the back. The Generals Eide and Eide are standing.  
  
"If we may have your attention, please," Sigrun's mother begins. Seemingly without effort, she speaks loud enough to be heard as far as the tables by the door. It's a very powerful voice for such a little old woman. Old-ish. Older. Maybe that's where Sigrun got her projection skills? "The next operation of the season has been approved. Eighth and Twelfth regiments," she faces each table in turn. "Please be prepared for deployment to Sector Seven on August sixth. Your Captains will brief you on the operation details shortly."  
  
At the Captains' table, Sigrun hoots and pounds the table. Her father holds a finger to his lips to quiet her. The captain sitting beside her, a large man with a bushy ponytail, does the same and puts a hand between her fist and the table as a buffer. (He's probably only spared several broken fingers by virtue of the fact that he's roughly the size of a bear, with the bone structure to match, no doubt. Sigrun's fist slaps mutedly against his knuckles. She concedes to the announcement.)  
  
In the middle of the night, he wakes drenched in sweat. He tucks his blanket curtain up under the upper mattress to cool his bunk down and stumbles through the dark to the back of the hall. Washing his face helps some, but his back is chilled and sticky beneath his shirt. His own reflection in the mirror gawps back him disheveled and pale. Stupid reflection, he thinks. Where did he leave his washrag, again? Hymir is patrolling the toiletry storage cubbies for mice; Emil obliges him with a scratch on the rump before digging out a fresh cloth. Washing off with a cloth never does seem to get one quite as clean as a proper shower, but it's far too late for a run to the showers. Too dark, it would be terribly inconvenient -- were he to catch himself on something out there and trip, well. Sigrun would be out one key player and the whole sweep would be compromised. Better to stay put in the light. Best for everyone.  
  
Good gods, why did he think this would be a good idea. He tries to lean back against the wall, but his legs have evidently decided to turn back in for the night. He hits the ground hard enough that he feels it in his teeth. Seeing Emil there on the floor, lap vacant, Hymir saunters over to claim a seat. Once settled and stroked to his satisfaction, he begins to purr. Sitting curled up there on the floor with Hymir's soft rumbling reverberating against his stomach, he comes back to himself, just a little bit -- less ill at ease in his own skin. Still feeling a little shaky, but it's enough. He carries Hymir (not without initial protests, of course) back to his bunk and tries not to think about what that cat might have eaten before bedding down. Bosse's slept on his pillow before, but then, Emil's also reasonably sure Bosse's never so much as glanced twice at food that hasn't come out of a can. He hopes the kitten's learning good habits from him over the summer. In the morning Hymir is stretched clear across his face and there's hair stuck to his tongue, but at very least he feels better.  
  
For the moment, that is. It catches up with him, and does so at odd times. Mostly first thing in the morning, or just before falling asleep. As he is able to stave off unconsciousness longer and longer, Emil finds he almost misses the convenience of exhaustion to help him bypass the inconvenience of his thoughts. Particularly when his thoughts are set on betraying him so. Other times it ambushes him at random -- he might be brushing his teeth when the coldness takes hold. It doesn't even need to wait until his body and mind stand still, it can overtake him even during training. Sparring practice is meant to keep their improvisational muscles sharp, and so his head ought to be in it. Sigrun's teaching style is specifically tailored to keep one's head in it. He thinks. She keeps up an aggressive pattern that Emil has yet to devise a way to counter (he'd originally thought he might wait out the onslaught until she tired; he thought wrong). Experimentally, he tries turning her signature tactic back on her. But Sigrun stops his strike with a forearm and in one fluid motion pushes over his arm and forth. The hilt of her wooden practice knife catches him square in the chest, right on the breastbone. He could cry, if everything other part of him didn't already hurt so much more. He just groans and puts his hands on his knees because he doesn't have the energy to do more than groan and be winded. Sigrun drops back, her lips pressed into a slim line.  
  
"Man, I know you could have stopped that one in your sleep. What's with you today?"  
  
"I...nothing. It's. I think I just need to catch my breath for a second."  
  
But one second becomes two, becomes too many, and he realizes the captain's eyes are on him and this is when he's supposed to be rising to the challenge, not-- not-- _this_ and suddenly he's catching too many breaths all at once, and then--  
  
Sigrun's hand grips his shoulder. "Easy, there. Take a big, deep breath." Gods, she's really, really _strong_ , he thinks. "Good, now another." Emil sucks in another breath as far into his lungs as it'll go. It doesn't feel like enough. "Another." She braces her free hand on the other shoulder and leans in close. "There you go, easy does it. One at a time. Do like I'm doing." He watches her for each draw of air, each release and he tries to do the same. In when she does, out when she does. In. And then out. And in. And out.  
  
He's so busy following her lead he doesn't even notice he's settled back down to something like normal. She keeps at it a minute more before letting go.  
  
"Better?" she asks, picking her knife back up off the ground, dusting it off, and sheathing it. Emil nods.  
  
"Yeah," he says. "Better."  
  
"First troll hunt jitters, huh?" She takes a seat on the ground and pats the earth beside her. It's a little beneath him to sit square on the ground, but probably not any more so than anything else he's done since he got here. One day he might just look back on all this and laugh. One day when he's very, very rich and world-famous. There'll be a whole chapter of his autobiography devoted to the indignity of all the time he spent on the ground in Dalsnes. So he shelves his reservations and joins her.  
  
"Not really." He says. "I don't think so?" He doesn't exactly know what he thinks. "It's just weird." Sigrun's forehead creases.  
  
"Weird? It's not like it's anything you didn't do outside. Right?" Right. But.  
  
"I guess. Then again, outside we didn't just go looking for trouble. Trouble mostly ran into us."  
  
"Yeah!" Yet Sigrun brightens, bumping a fist into his shoulder. "This'll be organized, planned trouble! The good kind! Besides, you're going to be with a whole platoon of seasoned troll hunters."  
  
"True..."  
  
"This'll be a piece of cake! You'll see!" When she puts it like that, it's hard to justify any of the nagging what-ifs in the back of his mind. "They let you bring some of your explody toys, right?"  
  
"I got to keep the flamethrower, at least." That's certainly heartening.  
  
"Attaboy!" She stands, holding out a hand to help him to his feet. "That's what I like to hear. Now, c'mon! Let's go kill stuff!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, so originally Emil's section was going to be just one chapter.....buuuuuut now it looks like it's spilling over into two full chapters of trollhunting madness! So stay tuned for trolls, trolls and more trolls!


	7. August, Year 91: Whatever You Do, Don't Feed the Trolls

"Alright, so here's the deal: last fall, a ten kilometer area just east of the Dalsnes base got cleansed. For the newcomers: we've been doing the mop-up there this summer and we'll be picking up where the last sweep left off. Easy stuff. The demo area-- fuckin'--" she swears as the map peels free from the wall, curling and draping right over Sigrun's head. The map bounces as she attempts to swat it off with her pointing rod. "Stupid map--" The enormous captain from the Twelfth lifts it clear of her head for her and pins one corner back to the wall with the span of a palm. He nods for her to continue.

 

"Thanks, Harald. Anyway. The demo area's split into ten two-kilometer work zones," and here she taps an area circled in red on the map. "So we don't just charge in guns blazing, hoping we manage to hit something. We work in squads of five, one squad to each zone. Everybody is everybody's backup. That means you don't go anywhere your squad can't get to you, you got it? Best if everyone stays in sight range. You'll have a set of signal flares in case things go pear-shaped. Red's for "help me", green confirms you've seen the red and you're on your way. Only leave your assigned zone if you see a red flare nearby, and _never_ leave your zone without telling your squad leader."

 

For the first time since Emil has met --met? seen?-- him, the enormous captain opens his mouth to speak:

 

"Someone must know where you are at all times. For your safety as well as your squad's."

 

"Exactly! See? Pretty simple. We rendezvous at the entry point after four hours. Let's recap." She counts the rules off on her fingers. "Use your instincts. If you feel like you're being watched, stick close to your squad. The best kill is a quiet kill. Most of all, try not to die. Summer crayfish boil's coming up and you don't wanna have to miss it just because you're dead, right?"

 

Three turns of the seasons haven't been enough to see any resurgence of natural life in the fallow zone. The cleansers have done a decent job, for a Norwegian outfit. Everything in sight's been burnt nearly beyond recognition. Blackened, wiry tangles were probably trees or shrubs in their past life. Now all it takes is a good, strong wind to shatter them into ash. Emil pulls the neck of his shirt up over his nose and mouth. In his peripheral vision he can see Sigrun setting her goggles.

 

"Alright," she says. "Who's got the cats?" The one-eyed lieutenant, now wearing a full-face mask of his own, scoops up the cat beside him with an arm around its legs. The cat mewls indignantly, but lets itself be lifted from the buggy and deposited on the ruined ground.

 

"Aw, shit yes, we got Brynhild?" Sigrun punches the air. "Thanks, Mom!" Brynhild preens, though whether due to the praise or due to the ash in her fur is anyone's guess. Their squad's second cat, Surtr, is a fair bit older and somewhat baffled looking. He sniffs at the wheels of the buggy like he's never seen a car before. One-eye has to chase him down before he wanders too far away from the team. "Oh. Well, he hasn't gotten anyone killed yet."

 

Mostly, a troll hunt is a lot of poking dead foliage and hoping something shakes out. The first hour or so is entirely uneventful. It's certainly much slower than a cleansing. Under the weight of his fuel pack, Emil's back and shoulders would have typically been killing him by this point -- had it not been for all that dreadful strength training this summer. He suspects that he'll cut a rather dashing figure in civilized clothing by the end of the season. He feels foolish compared to the others, though, even as he follows their lead. Emil flips rocks and levers up burnt logs -- initially with trepidation, much calmer as the sweep passes without incident.

 

He reflects that it would be nice to be in good company for the effort. At least whenever Sigrun took his self and Lalli out hunting, he'd had a non-judgmental sound board to bounce his concerns off of. He does suppose there's always Åge, or would have been were he not off with the giant's squad. But Lalli. If Lalli were here, Emil wagers he'd be toddling along half a step behind. Probably mounting his own investigation in his own head, curious fellow. The onus would be on his self to make sure Lalli didn't wander too far off and into trouble. It'd be a welcome distraction from the possibility of imminent, gruesome death.

 

Truth be told, it's actually quite dull when gruesome death isn't imminent. A lot like being back outside, really. Well, okay. Not entirely. The cats are well-trained, even the daft one, and the soldiers are methodical in their sweep. Pinched-nose finds a scorched something submerged in the earth and waves one of the hunters over for backup before turning it over. All they find is a matching hole in the former soil, but the other hunter keeps his rifle trained on the site until Pinched-nose is done with her search. She drives her dagger into the ground several times to ensure nothing's trying to wait them out. Satisfied, they drop the scorched-up something and move on.

 

Brynhild walks at the head of the whole motley procession, sniffing things that catch her interest; Surtr rolls in some ashes. Emil does trust that Sigrun's faith in the cat isn't misplaced. Though he also much prefers to continue having a face. He imagines the old war horse won't take it personally that he sticks closer to Brynhild.

 

Well into the second hour of the sweep, when they are deep into the cleansed zone, Surtr freezes and begins to bristle. Slowly, carefully, he lowers his head to sniff the ground. Whatever has his attention, he dislikes it. He dislikes it bad enough to yowl fit to raise the dead. He circles the space, howling his haggard little head off until Sigrun steps forward, knife drawn. One hand goes on the ground and presses to feel for the give of a hollow in the earth. Emil watches the way her eyes narrow behind her goggles. All the tension in her body winds taut. And then-- suddenly-- quick as a firing pin, her arm snaps out into the ground and twists hard. Just watching, Emil wants to cringe in sympathy for whatever she's hit. He's seen her make a kill before --brutal and elegant-- still, he's never seen her on the offensive like this. If her quarry isn't dead, he imagines it's wishing it were. But moments pass and nothing surfaces. With a quizzical look at the squad and several nods of confirmation, several guns are turned towards the site. Sigrun counts down with her fingers, five, four, three, she braces her knees against the ground and pulls--

 

\--the knife rips free, taking with it a large chunk of dirt and a single writhing rat snake.

 

"Dammit, Surtr!" The cat's too busy cowering and hissing behind her to be humiliated. Sigrun shucks the poor creature off her knife and puts a fast end to its suffering. "Pull that crap again," she roars at the cat, "and you're stew!" Surtr, however, appears unperturbed by her threats; regarding the snake corpse with equal parts distrust and disdain before turning and marching off with a flick of his tail.

 

"We should all be so blithe," Pinch-nose remarks dryly, watching his figure recede.

 

Maybe the cleansers really have made a white-glove sweep of it. It's not unheard of. So it isn't so unreasonable that he finds himself calming down significantly after that little scare. Even Sigrun and the soldier who'd aided Pinch-nose are talking among themselves up ahead like they're all just out for a stroll. Which is why the hole he finds under a knot of desiccated brush seems so innocuous at first glance.

 

"Sigrun?" He peels back the foliage with the business end of his weapon. "How fast do animals come back after a cleansing?" Normally he deals with the before, not the after. He's no expert, but he's fairly certain a recently-cleansed zone makes for an inhospitable home. Sigrun raises her goggles and tilts her head to the side as if to peer into the burrow. Emil can't imagine she sees any more in there than he does.

 

"Longer. But sometimes you get, uh. Some moles. Or really dumb rabbits." She straightens, shifts her gun into ready position. "Just open it up to be on the safe side, they can always dig another."

 

In increments, he smashes open the top of the burrow as far back as he can go. Nothing. Sigrun lets out a breath and shoulders her gun again.

 

"Not-dumb enough to move back home. At ease, kid." And with that, she's off, strolling back to the head of things. Well, Emil thinks. That's a relief. He kicks at the dirt, clearing a bit out of the sad remains of something's former home. He sure hopes they found somewhere else to be. They'd even dug so far back they'd hit solid rock -- what an awful little den. Not unlike the feral cats, but. He supposes one does what one must in the wild. He doesn't envy the poor creature.

 

The solid rock wall suddenly shivers. And vanishes, leaving behind a gaping tunnel at the back of the den.

 

Oh, Emil thinks. Oh, _hell_.

 

"Guys," he hears himself calling out. He thinks. Everything feels a little fuzzy. "Sigrun-- somebody--"

 

But the shuddering earth catches their attention first. Brynhild begins to hiss; Surtr winds about Pinch-nose's ankles, his fur on end. The trollhunters turn their arms towards the disturbance, a chorus of hammers cocked. One spine of a leg, shining like a razor, pierces the surface. Then another. They scrabble for purchase against the ground. Three spines. Four.

 

"Hold fire!" Sigrun shouts. "Wait until it's out!" He doesn't want to wait. He knows she's right, but instinct is screaming at him from within not to give it the chance. Instinct is screaming that it's either the creature or him-- and so instinct wants it very far away and very, very dead.

 

Instinct doesn't get much of a choice in the matter, as the beast breaks through whether Emil likes it or not. He finds he doesn't like it: the creature is a long, dark mass of ruptured flesh, like in imitation of a giant serpent. A thin veil of tissue seals in its skull, and it swivels its head, unseeing eyes casting about for cover. The narrow spears of bone protruding along the spine ripple with each minute movement it makes. For one infinitesimal, horrible instant it coils taut, as if to strike. Instead it turns and lurches away. Sigrun signals to Pinch-nose.

 

"Red flares, now!" The lieutenant loads up and fires. Sigrun bolts after the beast. The other two soldiers are right behind her. One manages to land a shot to its flank, for all the good it does. Ruined flesh pops from the entry site and the troll veers away again.

 

Off in the distance Emil can hear the shriek of another squad's flares. He looks to the sky --green, that's good-- and back to the scene before him. The troll is closer to him now, pushing its four feeler-spines into the soil. Sigrun and the hunters still struggling to close the distance. This all would have been so much easier if they'd have let him bring the explosives. He's not near enough to chance a blast, and even when he does, he's only got ten seconds of fuel. And no backup tank. And the knife.

 

And the creature's found a spot to dig back into its burrow. Oh, damn it, Emil thinks. Damn it all, the trollhunters had better throw him the biggest hero party for this. He charges after it.

 

Chances are it can't find its way much better above ground than under. Between the dead-end dens and escape burrows, he suspects it can't have gotten too far in the time its taken for him to catch up. He lowers the nozzle into the hole, releases the fuel, and cursing this particular bout of The Crazy, he pulls the trigger.

 

He gives it two or three seconds of juice and cuts it as soon as he hears the troll's wail. The bile-black scent of skin burning spills out of the hole and Emil takes that as his cue to drop back.

 

"I got it!" He calls out to the others. "Sigrun! I think I got it!"

 

"Is it dead?"

 

"It's..." He would like to see what kind of creature could take a direct blast and live to tell the tale. "It _should_ be. I--" But the ground begins to tremble again. This time, they have no four-footed warning. The beast bursts free of the ground, writhing in pain, the entirety of its lower half swaddled in smoke and flame. The razor spines lay flat to its body as it careens about, desperate to roll out the fire. The reek of burning flesh is nigh unbearable; the screaming, even worse.

 

Pinch-nose raises her gun and takes aim for its head. Her face screws up in concentration as she waits for an opening. Instead, the creature's wild flailing catches her from the side. There's a loud crack; she cries out and the rifle clatters to the earth.

 

"How is this thing not dead yet?!" Sigrun grabs her lieutenant and guides her out of the beast's range of motion. "Can't you set it more on fire or something?!"

 

"I-- I could try," Emil stammers. "But the fuel, what if--"

 

"Just do it!" The lieutenant growls between clenched teeth. Her left arm hangs useless at her side; her other hand is balled into a fist at her waist to supplant the urge to grasp the injured arm. Emil obliges them, strafing the beast's head and praying he doesn't run out of fuel before he hits something. He can hear another squad's buggy putter to a stop nearby.

 

"Mighty Allfather," One-eye swears, behind the wheel. Sigrun dives for their storage compartment.

 

"C'mon, don't just sit there with your thumbs up your ass! Shoot it dead or help me pin it!" One-eye stumbles out of the car, followed by the rest of his squad.

 

"Sir!"

 

Emil gives the creature the longest blast he can manage. Nothing catches. Coldness grips his belly. He tries the fuel release again. Nothing.

 

"Emil, stand down!" One-eye steps into position, aiming his rifle at the troll. "We're probably better off using our energy to trap the head before we worry about destroying it." To Sigrun, he says: "Sorry, sir. I can't get a good shot, we're wasting our time trying."

 

"Dammit. I hate this kind of fight." She unrolls the net she's dug out of the car, a heavy hemp weave without weighted ends.

 

"Not much of a fight," One-eye laughs.

 

"That's why it sucks!" Emil deposits the flamethrower into the storage compartment for the time being. "I'm going to need a team on each side of this nasty. Emil, Åge, you take nine o'clock. Lieutenant, we're three."

 

Once more Emil skirts around the writhing beast. Sigrun's right, no normal living thing could keep up this long. He hasn't ever seen anything...never seen anything die, by burning, but he can't believe anything but a monster would not have exhausted itself or succumbed to shock by now. The screaming has subsided, but worse yet the creature groans --no, creaks-- deep in its throat. Like the death rattle of something already long dead. Behind its membrane veil the skull is rearing back, misshapen jaws nearly unhinged, heaving flecks of decayed matter with each croak and gasp. Emil quickly averts his eyes.

 

"Counting three," Sigrun warns them from the other side. Her focus is half on the task of hefting the net, half on the trajectory of the beast's flailing. It won't be easy to get the net set if the thing's as strong as it looks. Pinch-nose, seated in the passenger seat of One-eye's buggy, her hair is matted to her scalp by sweat. Not that it's stopped her from loading up another round and bracing her rifle over the top of the door with her remaining good arm. "One-- dammit!"

 

She sidesteps a particularly violent spasm.

 

"Again! One, two, three--"

 

This time, the rope clears the creature. The edge of the net clatters to the ground. Åge grabs one side and pulls the net flat. Emil bends to his knee to catch the other. Coldness sears across his back. Searing, boiling cold. Then comes the impact.

 

The force of the blow throws him to the ground before he quite realizes he's been struck. With the air driven from his lungs, all he can think is to suck in air to restore them. The pain does not register in full until he's breathing again and fumbling for his side of the net. Åge's mouth hangs open at the sight.

 

"You're--" he tries, as if unsure how to say what he wishes. "You're on fire!"

 

That would, ah. Certainly explain the burning sensation.

 

"Oh," he says.

 

"Roll over!" Pinch-nose advises, all the way over in the car. Right. Like in training. Fire safety basics. Emil leverages himself first onto one side. The biting pain in his side pushes him back onto his belly and over the other way. He lands heavily on his back. It hurts too much to tell if he's out proper, but nobody's yelling at him anymore so he thinks he's in the clear. Åge's straining to hold his side alone; Sigrun and One-eye are having only a notch of an easier time of it. He rolls onto his feet again and takes hold of the net. Sigrun barks out their next orders:

 

"Okay, spread! Go wide, get him as flat as you can!" As broad as the net is, they are only able to trap about half the length of the beast. Pinch-nose had better work fast, he thinks. Pinned or not, it hasn't given up yet. At this rate, the smoldering tail seems to pose a greater threat than the monster's spines or teeth. Each violent spasm of its massive body threatens to tear the net from their grasp.

 

The lieutenant's first shot misses by half a meter, blasting a divot of burnt earth in every direction. The second strikes true. But the troll strains still.

 

"Are you kidding me?!" One-eye swears, widening his stance.

 

"Keep going," Sigrun growls. "Big nasty, big brain."

 

"Sir," the lieutenant affirms. She unloads round after round into the beast. Her barrage feels as though it lasts for hours. Emil's arms and stomach boil from the effort of keeping the beast in place.

 

"You think he's got more than one brain hiding in there?" The lieutenant looks as exhausted as he feels. She loads up again. Sigrun snorts.

 

"Shoot it in the ass, let's find out."

 

Pinch-nose doesn't get her chance. The puttering of a buggy engine drowns out the monster's eerie creak: the captain from the Twelfth and his dispatch squad roll over the horizon and into view.

 

After that, it's as simple as the shaggy captain's clasped fists pile-driving the troll into a neutralized mound of refuse. Turns out that the beast had at least three brains hiding along the length of it. This would have been so much easier if they'd have just let him keep the grenades. Over in a second. Unbelievable, he thinks, dropping a rock onto one of the distal brains. The rest of the Twelfth takes over checking the burrow one last time. Some smaller trolls are hiding away in the  original den, but the rest of the tunnel proves empty. The site is declared cleared with some well-placed boot heels.

 

Yet for all the trouble it's been...it hasn't been half bad, as far as fights go. The thrill of victory hard won, well. He can get used to the feeling, he thinks. The adrenaline is still coursing through him as they rendezvous all, stabilize Pinch-nose's arm, and drape a spare cloak over his shoulders. The drive back to base is a blur of exhilaration and Sigrun chattering rapidfire at anyone who'll lend her a moment's attention. Surtr lies curled in his lap and Emil finds that as stiff and cramped as his hands may be he still has strength enough to keep up a steady scratch behind his scraggy little ears. It might just be the happiest he's ever been.

 

Raucous cheering greets them at the gates of the base. The gateguards call out their arrival across the parapets like oil catching alight. Within minutes, the whole of the sentry shift is teeming at the gate to whoop and cheer. The din has risen to an oceanic roar to meet the fleet of buggys as they pull into the grounds.

 

"Told you we'd make a trollhunter out of you yet!" Sigrun's knuckles digging into his scalp barely even hurt, overpowered by the adrenaline. "So, how does it feel? Ready for a career change? Huh? Huh?"

 

"It feels..." Emil's not really sure what it feels. It feels like a lot all at once. "It feels......hungry." It's starting to hurt a little, too, but mostly it feels hungry. Laughter bursts out around the car. Sigrun stands in her seat, clinging to the overhead guardrails for support while she addresses the rest of the team.

 

"Whattya say, troops? Dinnertime?" It's good to see they're on board with a sensible plan. Patch-up and party, rather par for the hunt routine he's been told; the medics catch up with them soon after so nobody walks into the mead hall with gaping wounds. They come, along with what has to be most of the base. From the looks of it, just about everyone's come out to get a peek at the returning regiments. Emil tries to peer out beyond the medics to see what's going on as well. A woman and some small children are crowded around Pinched-Nose already, the woman hysterical and gripping at Pinched-Nose's uniform. Pinched-Nose seems to be trying to soothe her. The children are content poking and patting at her wounded arm.

 

Sigrun has her mother by the shoulders and is screaming something to her very excitedly. The monstrous captain from the Twelfth heads towards them carrying what appears to be a stress ball shaped like a cow. One-eye's making some report to a skald. Åge's being checked over for a concussion. Surtr is busy soliciting praise from the welcome committee. Brynhild is busy soliciting a bath.

 

A medic is quick to corner him and start cutting off the remains of his tunic, an easy job seeing as there isn't much left of the back. She snips once at the neck and helps him step out of the rest. And then tuts loudly upon seeing what's underneath.

 

"And how exactly," she asks, "did you manage to get your whole back roasted out there?" When he's a famous hero one day, Emil figures he'll have a snappy answer for her, the kind that sounds good in interviews. This time all he can think to do is shrug by way of apology. Not apology enough, though, as the medic is rougher than need be in picking the grit out of the wound. There can't possibly be that much gravel stuck in his back, he thinks. Perhaps wisely, he doesn't tell the medic so.  
  
Listening to the river-babble of voices around him, he drifts into something of a lull. Emil empties the vial of painkillers bit by bit, while the task of cleaning his back and assessing the damage fades from a steady sting to a dull thrum in the very edges of his awareness. Sigrun passes him en route to another task; without missing a beat, she stretches out a hand to pat his shoulder. It's all so. Organic-feeling. It's pleasant.

 

And amid the bubble and chatter in Norwegian, ebbing into a semi-coherent white noise with the passage of time and his dropping levels of adrenaline, Emil is roused from his daze by a sudden something -- _off_.

 

One of the voices is speaking in short, sprinting sounds, like light fracturing on the surface of a lake.

 

There's a moment before he places it: somebody is speaking _Finnish_. He looks up.

 

Tuuri is pushing her way through the tide of people. With her head turned over her shoulder and her finger crooked so, she's probably imploring someone to follow. But when she faces forward once more she stops in her path. And beams.

 

"Emil!"

 

"Tuuri!" He makes to stand, but the medic at work on him holds him down in his seat. He waves instead. "When did you get here?" He doesn't recall seeing them arrive. Also: "What are you doing here?"

 

"Mr. Andersen didn't tell you?" She's not significantly taller than he, not from this angle. Still, it's odd to have to look up to see her rather than down slightly. "We're all going to rendezvous here instead of Mora. He said something about a party and some cake."

 

"Yeah, they take their parties pretty seriously down heeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaa- _shit_ _!"_ He nearly falls out of his seat as the top of Lalli's head, piercing gaze and all, materializes over Tuuri's shoulder.

 

"Lalli!" She cries. She pushes his jaw until he's standing up correctly instead of hunching behind her. "Staring!" She repeats it again in Finnish (probably), and Lalli turns his chin up and away until she's finished chastising him fully. Of course. If Tuuri's here, than obviously he's here, too.

 

"Hey," Emil breathes, feeling a little giddy. Lalli eyes him up and down, unblinking, with that eerie cat-eyed stare. Then he mutters something entirely incomprehensible in Finnish and peels a chunk of bloody flesh and teeth out of Emil's hair.

 

And maybe it's just the painkillers going to work (and boy is he on a lot of them), but now Emil's sure this is the happiest he's ever been.


	8. August-September, Year 91: Meanwhile, At the Crayfish Boil

It's going to be a bit before he can go back on another hunt, the medics tell him, even with the maged-up bandaging and fancy painkillers. The full rundown of damages sustained sounds like a medic training exam review list: cracked ribs, second degree burns, significant distal abrasion. The chart is posted right next to his bed, so he's had quite a lot of time to stare at it and commit it to memory. He lies on his stomach and turns his head this way and that and thanks to the painkillers it becomes more entertaining to read from each new angle he tries. If he looks upside down at his infusion (infusion? what infusion, he wonders) rate chart, it makes a neat little pattern.

 

Hymir, having pegged him for a sucker, remains his most cuddly and most faithful visitor. Sigrun comes to see him in the sick bay a couple of times, too. She's gotten off light with just a sprain or something. They've wrapped her leg and given her a cane and as far as Emil can tell she's been putting it to more use enforcing drills than supporting her weight. Lalli stops by as well, in Tuuri's wake. Tuuri's rather excited to tell him about the new funding they'll be receiving. Not much more than before, but enough to get her chattering rapidly about dull equipment specs. She seems so happy, that between her high spirits and his constant stream of medication he finds he's hard-pressed to complain. He's a very good listener, on enough morphine. Lalli attends, uncomprehending. As usual he's caught up in something else, gazing out the window and eating the package of biscuits Emil hazily remembers were there to help absorb some of the medicine. He fixes his stare on Emil's blankets now and then, as if trying to re-imagine the mangled flesh of his back underneath as he saw it last. Then, suddenly, he sits upright on his stool. He turns an angry look Emil's way, the same as after that first disastrous extraction in Denmark, and slinks off.

 

"Lalliiiiiiii, no" he croons. He'd been hoping Lalli would stay and do his funny fidgety Finn thing. He's rather put out by this change of plans. And a little confused. He didn't think he'd done anything to offend him. Tuuri appears not to have any more insight than his own self. She gapes at Lalli's retreating form.

 

"What the...what was _that_ about?"

 

He doesn't see Lalli in the sick bay after that, though it does not escape his notice that his biscuits continue to vanish if left still long enough.

 

Reynir reaches Dalsnes in a flurry of effusive goodwill and an even more effusive crop of hair. Emil has already been released to the common dormitory by this time, having received sufficient rest to clear him for discharge by the chief medic's reckoning. One visit to the medics each day to have his dressings changed and antibiotics reapplied, and the rest his body should handle on its own, he's told. He rises to wash his face and tie back his hair after the morning rush has died down. At first he thinks he is hallucinating when he sees the preternaturally long red hairs plastered to the entirety of the sink area. Many of the trollhunters do have red hair, he grants. Quite a number of them on the same side of their clan as the father, even. But no. This hair. This hair he recognizes. He would recognize it anywhere. He'd damn near choked on the stuff last winter.

 

This is how he knows of Reynir's arrival long before Reynir bounds up to him at mealtime, chitters some sort of monologue at him in Icelandic, shoves a lumpy woven belt into his hands, and patters away into the crowd. It's a gaudy thing, poor quality aside. The patterns along its length are uneven and irregular, there's just no sense in it. According to Tuuri, everyone's been gifted one, including a smaller one meant for the kitten as a collar. She produces her own strap and the one made for the kitten while she's helping him do gear maintenance. The collar's a bit large to be worn as intended, though. Tuuri posits that the cat may need to wear her gift as a belt as well. When he makes inquiries as to Lalli's current elusiveness, she knows as little as he.

 

"He did _look_ pretty upset that one time, but you didn't do anything...did you?" She peers at him through the disembodied barrel of a spare handgun.

 

"I don't know! I haven't even seen you two since April!" Tuuri does a one hundred and eighty degree sweep of the area. She purses her lips, thinking.

 

"Maybe you really didn't? I'm not so sure, myself. My brother was always better at handling him."

 

"...oh." Emil tries not to sound too disappointed. She'd said she hadn't spent as much time with him before, it's not her responsibility to know. He flicks his cleaning brush against their little blanket setup to make ripples in the fabric. When he looks again at Tuuri, the barrel is back in her lap and her expression is positively predatory.

 

"Of course, I can try to find out..." Uh oh. Here it comes. He steels himself for the stipulation:

 

"...but?"

 

"It's going to cost you!"

 

"Cost me _what._ "

 

"Well... _if_ you want me to get it out of him, you'd better give me an extra-special exclusive insider tour!" She flexes and clenches her fingers again and again, excitement almost palpable. "You've got to show me all the Norway you got to see over the summer, okay? We've only got a few more weeks here, and I've got so much catching up to do!"

 

At the same time, Sigrun (by way of One-eye) prescribes a list of rehabilitation exercises to keep him from going completely to hell while he recovers. He passes no small amount of time stretching and crunching and the like to while away the empty hours. Now that he's on a reduced regimen, he certainly has a good share of that. He keeps performing maintenance on his weapons, too. So much maintenance. He takes it apart, and cleans it, replaces components and cleans it again. If Tuuri's around and he's finished his, they pool all their other tools, split cleaning duties down the middle, switch off, and do it again. When he's done doing that, he goes back to stretching. Emil's not even sure, after a certain point, which is worse -- having the full set of drills to do, or having nothing at all. Pinch-nose helpfully reminds him that if he's so terribly bored he's more than welcome to give the refectory staff some much-needed help; this puts things in perspective in short order.

 

Mikkel arrives from his detour to Denmark with approximately none of the pomp or circumstance of his teammates. Emil discovers his presence at the base one morning while hauling a cart full of practice dummies to the training grounds: the next step of remedial training, Sigrun calls it. Emil thinks the sane might call it, more simply, torture. He hasn't recovered so much as a fraction of the leg strength he'd built before the hunt and his back is protesting every shift of every muscle in his upper body. Consequently, he's straining along, dragging the damn thing at a pace that would be embarrassing if there were actually anyone around to see. He leans into the yoke with all his weight and heaves, then suddenly he's face-deep in a plush wall with an awful lot of opinion, for a piece of infrastructure.

 

"Mm. Good morning to you, too" the wall says. Emil stumbles backwards and into the cart. And pain. A great, great deal of pain.

 

"Holy-- Mikkel!"

 

Mikkel pointedly takes in his borrowed training tunic --rough homespun with wooden discs to fasten up the collar-- and the leather thong holding back his hair. "I see somebody's gone native," he rumbles. Instinctively, Emil's hand flies to the nape of his neck to cover the tie. Wonderful. Here he is dressed like a barbarian, and now he's been seen. Not that he hasn't been seen dressed like this before, but it's only been the trollhunters. They don't count. They don't know any better.

 

"I--"

 

"Relax, it's a good look. Very dashing." He ruffles Emil's hair with one heavy palm. "Have you seen--" What he says, Emil doesn't quite catch.

 

"...sorry?" He attempts to push himself off the dummies and out of the cart. His back pleads its opposition.

 

"Dry, bear. Seee-" What the?

 

"Sight? Seeing?" Emil offers. Mikkel pinches the bridge of his nose and rubs like he's got a headache.

 

"Other. Late."

 

"Who's late?"

 

"Taru," he tries. "Is Taru here."

 

"Oh!" Well, why hadn't he just said so? "I haven't, but Trond is around, he might know. He's probably in the offices with the Generals or something."

 

Mikkel thanks him and treats him to another ruffling of the hair. Emil catches a glimpse of himself in the shine on a window when he at last continues on his way.

 

"Oh, for the love of--" he can't help but cry out. And who could blame him? His hair is an absolute _mess_.

 

For a time Lalli seems to forget he's even angry about something. He sneaks under the table and pokes his head out onto the bench next to Emil at meals and watches Emil's plate until he sets some food down for him, too. He'll withdraw the plate into the shadows and eat in silence, only to seem to jolt suddenly. Then he'll stick his head back out for the sole purpose of glaring at Emil and slink off again, food in hand.

 

"Geez," says his bunkmate, settling onto the bench across the table. "That guy's pissed. What did you _do_?"

 

"I don't know! And cut it out, it's not funny!" In the ensuing kick-war, he's almost sufficiently distracted to put it from his mind.

 

When he starts getting truly desperate for ways to pass the time, he escorts Reynir on his little jaunts outside the town to collect plants. Reynir chatters up a storm as if he's resolved to make himself understood through sheer persistence. He gives Emil a basket to hold and fills up another, talking and whistling away. They usually come back with probably as many flowers stuffed into their hair as into their baskets and one time they quickly fall prey to the Dalsnes children's iteration of the salon game. Their version mostly involves a large amount of rough pulling and the reallocation of several flowers, but everyone walks away feeling beautified, if not a tad bruised. Once in a while, it isn't a bad way to burn an afternoon, Emil concludes.

 

The official Lalli verdict is actually quite anticlimactic:

 

"He's mad at you."

 

"I knew that." Tuuri puts a foot up onto the bottom rung of the pen fence so she can rest her arms properly on the top rung.

 

"Ah-ah! I wasn't finished!" She extends an arm, wiggling her fingers at one of the passing horses. She comes just close enough to catch a bit of its swishing tail. "Aw. Almost."

 

"You're going to scare them away if you do that. So?"

 

"It's okay," Tuuri reassures him. "They have to socialize military horses like these, they don't scare so easily!" She wiggles her fingers at another horse and makes a clicking sound like she's beckoning a cat. It doesn't work. The horse carries on as if she's not even there. Perhaps they've been socialized too well, Emil thinks. "Anyway, he told me he's mad because you ditched him for the summer."

 

"I...what?!" Of all the things he suspected might be amiss, that....well, that never so much as made it to the list of possibilities.

 

"Right? I told him you went home just like we did."

 

"He knows I live in a completely different country, right?" Tuuri shrugs.

 

"Sometimes I don't know what he knows. I guess you're probably just going to have to apologize to him."

 

"But I didn't do anything!" Tuuri shrugs again. She teeters up onto the top of the fence, dangerously close to reeling right over it. Emil steps a bit closer just in case he has to intervene.

 

"Here horsey, horsey," she calls. "I'd suggest trying food. It's really easy to bribe him with food! And speaking of which, come to think of it..." She eyes the horses grazing on the far side of the pen. "You could probably start my tour of Norway with where they keep the apples."

 

* * *

 

  
  
The trollhunters _really_ know how to throw a party. Emil'd thought himself a seasoned veteran of Eide family parties by now. After all, he's survived two. One would think there were no surprises left to be had. He was so horribly mistaken. Compared to the Annual Eide Summer Crayfish Boil? The first two were almost embarrassingly tame. The crowd in attendance an barely even fits in the mead hall proper, so there've been two auxiliary tents set up on each flank of the building for all the spillover. If Sigrun were to tell him the whole Norwegian army had showed up for the party, he'd probably believe it. That's how big the whole thing is. Lots of faces he doesn't recognize have been put up on the Captains' tables. Important people from different outposts, he figures. Sigrun gets his attention with a hand on his shoulder.

 

"Hey kid, see that lady over there?" She's got her eyes on a gnarled older woman. The woman moves as if she's been carved out of wood, slow and jerky. "First person I ever saw put an arm clean through a giant's head. Right through. You thought Harald did a number on our grossling buddy this summer? We're talking: Blood. Everywhere." Her jaw creaks open and shut around her food. Out of the corner of his eye, Emil sees Trond slip from the top-tier table to this one, his third switch of the evening. Looks like it's been a busy night for him.

 

At their own table, Mikkel ably directs the dinner traffic. Platters and pitchers make their way through everybody's hands bar none, maybe because they're insulated from the trollhunters' chaos at large, or maybe it's some trade secret. He pours drinks around their section, untroubled by the many other hazards of dinner with the Eides -- such as cats careening along the table at intervals or cutlery volleyed across the hall. Emil is reasonably sure that one of their parties is how One-eye must have achieved his signature look. The pitcher in Mikkel's hand stops just short of Reynir's cup. Slowly, Reynir's head cants to the side. He purses his lips a moment and then realization takes over and his eyes and mouth go wide.

 

"Ohhhh!" That much Emil understands. "Oh, it's fine," Reynir seems to say, pointing his cup forward with the whole of his body, shoulders drawn up up very nearly to his ears. "I've drank before, I'll be okay." Somehow Emil sincerely doubts that whatever mashed up blueberry homebrew his people make even remotely counts as a real drink. But brows knit and head shaking, Mikkel provides. He's talking back to Reynir in Icelandic, probably saying something about what a terrible idea it is and other sundry disclaimers. For once, Emil's inclined to agree. But if the new kid ends up making a fool of himself, he certainly can't say everyone didn't warn him.

 

Tuuri, meanwhile, is loading up Lalli's plate with a sampling of every platter that passes by their portion of the table, pointing at things and exclaiming excitedly in Finnish. Even Sigrun puts her brutal dismantling of a particularly large crustacean on hold to watch in amazement as the pile grows.

 

"What's got Stubby so excited?" The words are a bit distorted by the full claw positioned between her teeth. Tuuri must have heard none the less -- she turns, still piling food onto Lalli's plate as she talks.  
  
"I've read about some of these!" she says. "This is so exciting!" She switches over to Finnish, sweeping a forkful of something bright red and briny-smelling towards her cousin's mouth. "Come on, try it! Tell me how it is!" She says, probably. Lalli hisses at the offensive morsel and pointedly sinks under the table.

 

The kitten may not be allowed up on the bench per Mikkel's rules, but she's not missing out on the feast by any means. Over the summer, she seems to have learned the best methods to apply to hapless humans for just a little bit of this and a pinch of that from the platters. A quick snuggle for each mark and then she's off to do a circuit at the next table. Clever. And a bad habit. Emil can't imagine where she might have picked it up. She'd been staying at his aunt and uncle's with Tuuri and Mikkel, hadn't she? He knows he's told the kids not to feed the animals from their plates. Bosse sure wouldn't have stood for the competition. If Mikkel's cooking has improved, they're going to have to keep an eye on her this winter. Maybe even if it hasn't.

 

In the time it takes for Tuuri to explain the party spread to Emil, Reynir's constitution has gone completely to hell. He reaches for another helping of crayfish (pure protein, and he's recovering from a wound so it's hardly overindulgence) to find that on his other side, Reynir has plastered himself to Mikkel's stomach. His eyes are shut and he sighs happily. Mikkel looks less than pleased with this development but drinks on. Emil taps Reynir softly on the back.

 

"Is he alright?" He doesn't seem to want to move. Positively loaded. Reynir merely readjusts his hold and ignores him. Whatever he's saying, it's lost on him until Tuuri offers up a translation for everyone else's benefit:

 

"He's saying...'I can hear the ocean'."

 

Mikkel clears his throat, perhaps more loudly than he means to.

 

"I believe it's best if our friend calls it a night early." Reynir replies to this with what sounds like a question. Emil guesses that he may be protesting and does his best not to snicker at the kid's expense. After all, they _had_ warned him. He doesn't do so well playing the good sport about it all and Tuuri doesn't appear to share his amusement. He supposes that's kind-hearted of her. But they'd warned him.

 

"I don't know why you're laughing," she informs him, chin propped on her hand. "He was asking if he could try you next!"

 

Dessert finds the party still going strong and Emil in need of a bit of a break. It is, he thinks, probably as good a chance as any to go make a proper peace offering. With a plate of the Missus General Eide's famous honey cake in hand, he ducks out the back of the mead hall. He finds Lalli up on the parapet.

 

"Not a fan of big parties?" Lalli turns for just a moment, long enough to watch Emil take a seat near him, and then goes back to surveying the darkness. "I sort of got that feeling. You're missing out on General Mom's honey cake, though." He sets down the plate he brought with him and pushes it over. "I mean. General Eide, Missus. Everyone calls her 'General Mom', though. I thought Sigrun was pulling my leg with that one, but it's totally true. And the cake's not bad."

 

He sets it down on the flooring and pushes it over. The dish scrapes sharply against the wood; Lalli regards the cake with something that's probably suspicion.

 

"It's cake. Sweets. You eat it." He mimes putting food in his mouth and chewing. "Good stuff." He considers it a victory for interpretive communication when Lalli breaks off a piece with his fingers and eats, too. "See? Pretty tasty." Lalli purrs, maybe in reply.

 

"Some summer, huh?" Lalli doesn't respond. Emil likes to think that means he's listening. "You wouldn't believe what it's been like here with the trollhunters. Did Sigrun ever tell you she joined up with us as a vacation trip? If this is what they do all year here..." He leans back on his hands. "Then I'm ready for vacation, aren't you?"

 

"What did you do all summer, anyway? Didn't Tuuri say it was mage stuff? I mean. She said 'mage stuff' but she didn't really tell me what it meant, though. For all I know, you could have spent all summer hanging bear skulls on trees." He leans back against the parapet wall; his ribs don't protest quite as much as they would have some time ago, but enough to get him upright again quite soon. "Say, are you ever going to show me some of that magic you're supposed to be good at?" Lalli doesn't seem particularly interested in defending his qualifications, though Emil figures that's because he doesn't know they're on trial. "And not just some boring singing, you've got to show me the cool stuff. With explosions." Lalli lifts a bit of cake up with his forefinger and his thumb and silhouettes it against the moon. Emil watches him roll it between his fingers. Once he's had his fill of the sight of the moon and the cake, he tips the piece into his mouth and purrs some more.

 

Where words have fallen short, an offering seems to have done the trick. Lalli doesn't say anything to him, but as far as Emil remembers that isn't unusual. He doesn't have much by way of comparison as far as friendship goes. Lalli breaks off another piece and holds it out to him.

 

"I -- um, pardon?" Lalli holds it closer, eyebrows arched as if to say "Do you need me to explain everything to you?" so Emil lets him drop the bit of cake into his hand. Lalli picks away at the cake, still watching over the top of the wall.

 

"What are you even looking at, anyway?" Emil squints out into the blue-black. "Rocks? Trees? They have those everywhere. Even in Finland." He's been under the impression that's _all_ they have in Finland. He follows the westward swivel of Lalli's head. "...deer? Huh. Neat."

 

They polish off the cake in no time flat, it's not like Emil figured they'd be splitting it two ways. Since Lalli seemed to like it so much, he gathers up the plate to grab them some more. As he leverages himself to his feet, he feels a tug at his clothes. He looks down. Lalli has pinched the hem of his tunic between two long fingers. Lalli opens his mouth; the syllables that tumble forth are somehow halting and unsure.

 

"Come on, now. I'll be right back. I'm just going to get some more." Emil holds up the plate to illustrate. "More, see...?"

 

Lalli tugs once more on him, shaking his head. He repeats himself, or at least it sounds like he does. This time, more firmly.

 

"Fine, fine. Whatever you want. Sigrun's been bragging about this cake all summer, though. Just so you know what you're passing up here." Lalli leans his head against Emil's shoulder. It's. Kind of nice, actually. It hurts like crazy since Lalli's got those insanely sharp cheekbones. But it's nice. In a sort of warmish way.

 

"Hey. I know you're not going to understand me, but...for what it's worth, I really did miss you." He covers Lalli's hand with one of his own. He doesn't really mean anything by it. He's just happy to be close to him again. He'd forgotten how skittish Lalli can be: Lalli's hand snaps back. Lalli looks to him, piercing eyes wide and cautious. He holds his hand clasped to his chest like he's been burned, rubbing his fingers over some phantom pain deep in his bones.

 

"I'm sorry," Emil begins to say, the words tumbling from his tongue before he can even make sense of them. "Please don't be angry, I wasn't thinking--"

 

Lalli leans towards him again, lifting one of Emil's hands in the cradle of his narrow fingers and turning it palm side up. What he's saying is for his self to know only, but he doesn't sound mad. He weighs Emil's hand with his own. He must be satisfied with the results of this examination of his. After a moment, Lalli replaces their hands on the ground between them, his own facing up beneath Emil's so that they're palm to palm instead. Emil hopes Lalli can't see too well in the dark, because he's probably smiling like a complete idiot right now.

 

"Yeah," he says. "It's good to see you again, too, Lalli."

 

Time kind of falls to the wayside after that. He loses track of the seconds somewhere between the rhythm of their breaths and the pulses beating in their hands. He's probably even still smiling when he falls asleep propped up against the parapet's inner wall. He dreams he's being strangled by a giant of some kind. It wraps around him, wringing the air from his lungs. Its claws sink deep into his neck. Its rocky scales abrade his back. Turns out his brain isn't far off in filling in the blanks between this and that -- he wakes up to find they're still up on the parapet, half upright and halfway to lying down. His spine is twisted at an odd angle and the rough wood has not been kind to the raw flesh of his wound. And then there's Lalli, with his face smashed up against Emil's collarbone. Everything hurts beyond belief. Oh, he never wants it to end.

 

"Your face is sharp," he tells his companion, though he knows it's falling on deaf ears. "I'll have you know Sigrun's not going to stand for it if you savage my fighting arm -- I'm a very important trollhunter now." Lalli doesn't so much as stir. Emil's shoulder feels kind of sticky. It's possible that Lalli may be drooling all over him and ruining his best set of barbarian clothes.

 

Well, then. Emil settles back against the parapet wall as comfortably as he can manage. At least now he can say he's definitely had worse.


	9. October, Year 91: Captain's (Epi)Log

Ooh, this is going to be a good run. Sigrun just _knows_ it. You get a sense for these things over the years: fights and battles follow a certain kind of flow. Sometimes when everyone's energy's running high before a hunt you can tell things are bound to go great. Mind over maternity, or something like that.

 

Naturally, she's got her right hand warrior to thank for half the morale level. He grins like a loon while watching the dock crew load up the fuels and flammables. There's still a ways to go until he's properly whetted, but what she's seen this summer has been pretty promising. And she'd bet serious money he's picked up some respectable scars to go with it. Ooh, she can't wait, between the two of them they're going to shake down the old world for everything its got and leave all the little beasties quaking in their nasty little beastie boots. And by that, she means kill them. 'cause beasts don't wear boots.

 

Twig boy's gone and fallen asleep on the food crates; Emil's going to have to shoo him off if he can bear to tear himself away from his new toys long enough. She can't really blame the kid for being excited, but they're going to have to eat out there. Mikkel looks like he's got the rest of the stock situation under control. This time, he's having the dock crew open and check all the crates before they're loaded. Sigrun thinks he maybe also said something about itemized lists, she wasn't totally listening. He's a big boy, and it's not her job to stand around breathing down everyone's necks.

 

Tuuri's got her head under the hood, doing some kind of last-minute tune-up. Reynir's at the ready at her flank with a box of tools in one hand and a thin steel tablet in the other. He hands her the tablet, and it doesn't look like that's what she'd asked him for. She points at the toolbox again and talks him down until he hands her another wrenchy thing. He sucks in a breath and screws up his face. Tuuri gestures briefly with the tablet and tucks it into her belt, so maybe it's not a complete loss for Freckles. Good for him. If he can keep holding his own, she might just strike bait duty off his job list this round.

 

He's turned the tank into a real little witch hut, tucking those weavy straps he's made all over and hanging a whole garden's worth of crap in the study. The kitten's camped out in the main cabin swatting at a strap weighted down with wooden tablets that's dangling from the rear view mirror. She's getting too big to get dropped into a pocket for safekeeping these days. Kind of makes Sigrun wish they'd brought her home over the summer for some training of her own. Oh well, she thinks. There's always next year. Gonna be a rude awakening for kitty, though.

 

Uncle Trond and the Finnish lady are still talking something over with Admiral Shouty over there, so she's probably got some time yet. The better to put her feet up and enjoy the calm before the show kicks off.

 

Yeah, Sigrun thinks to herself. All in all, it's been a nice, productive summer for everyone. And now, it's going to be an awesome winter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...so, this is it, huh? Man. Everyone who's been following along with this, it's been so great to have you along for the ride! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did, and, as ever -- thank you.


End file.
